


Slouching Towards Hometown

by wordbending



Category: Deltarune (Video Game)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Fictional Psuedo-Christianity, Gen, Religion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2019-09-28 18:38:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 28,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17188268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordbending/pseuds/wordbending
Summary: Your very first memory is at church. So many of your memories, both good and bad, are of church. Your entire life seems to be centered on it.But, sometimes you can't help but wonder: is the Angel everyone believes in really real?And, if they are... why did they choose to curse you?





	1. The Ceremony of Innocence

**Author's Note:**

> _I keep fighting voices in my mind that say I'm not enough_   
>  _Every single lie that tells me I will never measure up_   
>  _Am I more than just the sum of every high and every low_   
>  _Remind me once again just who I am, because I need to know_
> 
> _\- You Say, Lauren Daigle_
> 
> Warning: this fic heavily references Southern Baptist Christianity and is based on my own experiences (and struggles) with the religion. This chapter has a violent mental breakdown, references to severe anxiety & inferiority complexes, and a heart attack. Later chapters will have canon character death, mind control/possession, severe injuries to a child, attempted suicide, and self-harm - I will make additional warnings for each chapter.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And what rough beast, its hour come at last, slouches towards Hometown to be born?

Your very first memory is at church.

You’re being held by your mother, cradled in her arms. She’s singing, in her beautiful, angelic voice, and so are your brother and your father, next to her. You can’t remember what hymn they’re singing, exactly. You just remember reaching up with your dark, tiny hands to try and tug on her chin fur, until you finally manage to get her attention. She stops singing, making a soft “oh!” of surprise, before she looks down at you and laughs. You laugh back, a giggle.

You don’t remember anything before that memory at all. You must have had parents, so-called “real parents,” before Toriel and Asgore, because your family reminds you over and over again that you’re a “human,” not a monster like they are. But, if you ever did have “real parents,” you don’t remember them. Even the vague silhouettes your mind makes up seem completely unreal - they both always look exactly like you. As far as you can remember, you’ve never actually seen your “real parents.” You’ve never heard of them. They might as well not exist.

In fact, you’ve never seen another human, period, even though you’re always hearing about them - Gerson had loved to tell stories about the history of humans and monsters, after all. You can’t help but wonder sometimes if there even really _are_ other humans, or if they’re just a made-up fairy tale. Perhaps you just emerged out of a clamshell, fully formed.

* * *

You remember attending church with your family for every week after that. You remember, at first, being buckled into a car seat next to your older brother, who spent every single ride making funny faces at you or waving brightly-colored toys in your face. Eventually, you graduated to getting a real seat, but you always insisted on sitting right next to Asriel, who tousles your hair, who talks to you, who fixes your tie, who holds your hand as you unsteadily toddle into church.

Before you know it, you’re old enough that people expect you to participate, not just to sit quietly on the pews or in your mother and father’s lap. And you remember how frightening that was - where church had been a calm, familiar space to you, it instead had felt crowded and claustrophobic, full of strange monsters with their strange eyes staring down at you. You felt your family and the monsters alike both expecting you to be a good, well-behaved child, to live up to the example set by your older brother.

That’s why, the first time that it was time for the morning greetings and someone actually spoke to _you,_ you didn’t know how to react. It was a young monster, about your age, with brown fur and freckles and buck teeth. They were wearing a green dress, which went all the way down to the floor, so that you couldn’t see their hooves.

They approached you and, rather stiffly, held out a furry hand. They weren’t looking at you, but away from you, as if the back of the pew in front of them was more interesting.

“H-hi! Uh, my dad says I should talk to people, so I’m, um…” Their voice dropped to a whisper. They still didn’t meet your eyes, their own eyes darting back and forth. “Er, what name did I pick? Oh, right! Uh, I’m Noelle… I’m a girl, so, um, you can call me ‘she’ or ‘her’? Oh, but, um, enough about me! W-what’s your name?”

You remember stiffening, both shoulders raising. You looked at her hand like it was going to sprout a mouth and bite you somehow.

You opened your mouth to answer her question, but realized you didn’t actually _know._ What _was_ your name? Had you always had a name? Had you picked one and then, in your growing panic, forgot it? Could you remember _anything?_

 _“_ Um! I mean!” said Noelle, her eyes widening. “If you don’t… if you don’t have a name yet, that’s OK! I’m so sorry!”

You noticed your breathing becoming heavy, and you could feel the tension in the air. It was as if, or maybe you were just imagining things, everyone else in the church had become silent. That they’d all noticed this awkward conversation and would, at any moment, descend on you.

You did the only thing that seemed reasonable at the time: you scampered onto the pew you were in front of, hopped over the top of it, and _ran,_ as fast as your short little legs would carry you. You shoved your way through the doors leading out of the church, past the startled church greeter, and kept running and running and running until you finally reached home. You don’t think you’ve ever moved that fast before or since.

You remember that you started crying halfway to your home, and you remember that by the time you got there and crawled under your bed, you had become a blubbering mess. Somehow, you were sure your whole family would disown you forever or give you away to some other family, even though you weren’t sure that your family would ever really do such a thing. Even the possibility that they _could_ was too frightening to even think about.

It had felt like longer, but it might have only been a minute before the car pulled in the driveway and Asriel found you under your bed, trembling. He gently tried to cajole you out, just by saying “Don’t be scared!” and “It’s me, Azzy!” over and over again, like you were some kind of stray animal. Of course, you eventually crawled out from under the bed. Because it was, after all, _Asriel,_ your closest friend. Your only friend. Your brother.

The moment you were out from under the bed, you wrapped your arms around his neck and cried into one of the shoulders of his green and yellow sweatervest. You couldn’t explain to him why you were crying, but he just patted you on the back, desperately promising you pie and chocolate and to play with you all night, until you stopped sniffling. Even at that young age, you knew he was just trying to find some way to distract you, to get your attention off whatever was upsetting you. But it worked, and you gladly took his paw as he led you to the kitchen for an early lunch.

* * *

You remember standing up on the church stage, in front of the altar, the piano, and the grand statue of a beautiful winged figure that represented the Angel. Next to you was your brother, and behind you was your father and mother. Your family was dressed in their Sunday finest, but you were dressed in a flowing purple robe that made you feel weird and uncomfortable. Your father was gently resting a massive paw on your back, behind your shoulder, no doubt to try and keep you calm.

It wasn’t working. Standing on the stage had made you want to scream. What you were standing on the stage _for_ had made you want to scream even more.

You remember Father Alvin, the winged, pink-haired priest, speaking, but you can’t remember what he had been saying. You only remember the dreaded moment arriving as the priest turned to you and your father ever-so-gently pushed you towards him. You walked unsteadily towards him, every step further away from your family making the world spin around, like it was going to turn sideways.

“This is a joyous day indeed,” Father Alvin said to you when you reached him. He had crouched down to your height to be at eye level with you, and his voice was calm (although, since it echoed throughout the speakers set up through the church, anything but quiet). “A day like today is important for any monster.”

 _Important for any monster,_ you remember thinking. And that was what you were, right? A monster? Like the rest of your family? If they could do this, why couldn’t you?

“Or human, I suppose,” Father Alvin continued cheerfully, laughing at his own joke, and laughter rolled through the pews. Even your father and mother laughed. You were just confused, at the time, because you obviously weren’t a _human._ But the priest only carried on. “Do you know why it is important?”

You remember shaking your head, an almost invisible amount.

“Because names, identities, those things are what give our souls form,” Father Alvin said, his hand crossing over your chest. “It is said a child is born three times. The first is when they come into the world. And the second is the day when they say out loud to the world, ‘this is my true self.’ Our names are another step towards making ourselves complete, towards granting us the Angel’s eternal blessing.”

You nodded, still almost imperceptibly, even though you didn’t really understand anything he was saying. You just remember feeling like you were supposed to nod.

“Will you accept the Angel’s blessing, child, and tell us what you want to be known as?” Father Alvin had said, stepping away from the mic stand positioned in front of him and motioning towards it.

You remember looking back towards your family. Your mother and father had smiled gently at you, but Asriel had mouthed “ _you can do it!”,_ and you had wanted to let him down least of all.

Part of you still wanted to scream, but you slowly walked up to the mic, a plastered-on smile on your face. There was a brief screech from the microphone as you approached it, which startled you, but you tried not to let yourself be afraid. _You will be brave_ , you remember telling yourself. _You will be brave._

Trying not to focus too much on all the monsters staring expectantly at you, you stood on your tiptoes in front of the microphone.

At last, you said, “Greetings,” because that was how your mother always introduced herself, and you liked your mother a lot. Your voice was small and reedy and you hated, just as much as you do now, the way it sounded to your own ears, but you still pressed on.

“I am Kris. And I am... nothing.”

Nobody had seemed surprised or confused by your proclamation that you were “nothing,” even though you had been so sure that they would be. Most monsters did not choose to be “nothing,” after all. They were one thing or another, but not “nothing.”

A moment after you finished speaking, a cheerful chorus of voices called out from the crowd, all at once, “Blessings upon you, Kris!”

 _Kris,_ you remember thinking as the wave of your name hit you all at once. The name you had chosen. You don’t remember where that name came from, or why you picked it, or if you’d even heard it before, but it just felt… right somehow. Like being nothing did. You couldn’t imagine being anything else.

Before you could have realized what was happening, your brother had burst out from in front of your parents and tackled you into a hug, squeezing you against his chest.

“Kris!” he says, and your name feels even more right coming from him. “Kris!”

Without warning, he let go of the hug and ran over to the mic.

“You better treat Kris right, OK?!” he had shouted into it, his voice echoing off the walls even without the help of the speakers. “Or I’ll, um... be really mad?”

You heard laughter from the pews and blushed - you couldn’t help it - but a real smile crept across your face all the same. You doubted your brother could hurt a fly, even if someone did bully you, but you couldn’t have been more grateful to have him.

* * *

“Now,” you remember Father Alvin saying, “if you would be so kind as to open your hymnals and turn to Hymn 405. _”_

You remember watching as your mother stood and took one of the hymnals out from the pew in front of her, holding it out in front of your father. Your brother dutifully did the same with you, and you stood up next to him. You were shorter than he was, so he had to bring down the hymnal enough so that you could see it without standing on your tiptoes.

“Brother Boom, if you would?” Father Alvin had said.

The piano player, a green turtle, cracked his knuckles and began to play the song. After a few seconds, Father Alvin turned to the all white-robed choir and began to conduct them, and the choir began to sing.

“ _Like an angel with cruel and merciless intent,_

_Go forth, young boy, and you’ll become a legend...”_

A litany of voices, some young and some old, some male and some female and some not quite either, joined in with their voices - you could hear your father’s deep rumble, your mother’s angelic lilt, your brother’s beautiful trained falsetto.

Struggling to read the words, you tried to join them.

“ _Someday you’ll notice_

_I’ll pray that you realize_

_These wings on your back aren’t a dream_

_At last, you’ll have all you need to escape to_

_The world where you’ll finally be free...”_

You stumbled over every other word, but as you sang with your family, you felt a warm feeling in your chest. You felt the monsters’ love, not just for the Angel, but for each other… even for you. It made you feel like you belonged here, with them. That this was right.

* * *

As the weeks and months went on, you remember that you began to get curious about something. It was the giant black piano that Brother Boom - or, rather, as you knew him now from his storytelling at the Librarby, Gerson - played. It was a beautiful, captivating instrument, especially in his capable fingers, and some part of you wondered if even you could be capable of creating something so enchanting with it.

So, one day, you took your brother’s paw and dragged him over to see Gerson - even though he had been in the middle of talking to Catty, who he apologized profusely to as he was dragged away. Gerson had been still sitting on the bench in front of the piano keys, but he hadn’t seemed to hear the two of you arriving. It was only once you came closer to him that you realized he had fallen asleep, his head and his scraggly white beard lolling against his purple robes. A snot bubble expanded and contracted from his snout.

You had stared at him, then looked up towards your brother, unsure what to do.

Eventually, your brother reached out towards him and said, “Mr. Gerson...?”

Gerson had awoke with a start, the bubble popping. He had looked back and forth rapidly, before he eventually turned around and noticed you both standing behind him.

“Asriel...?” he had said, scratching his bald head. “And even Kris! Heh, now that’s a surprise. Where’s the fire?”

“Um, there isn’t one, really...” Asriel had said, scratching his own head and grinning. You poked him in the side, and Asriel glared down at you before turning back to Gerson. “Just, er, Kris _really_ wanted to talk to you, I guess?”

“They did?” Gerson replied, resting his hands on his knobbly knees. He grinned at you, which made you step back behind your brother in spite of yourself - you knew Gerson and the other monsters of Hometown were harmless, but you’d never really _talked_ to him before, and some part of you had still thought he’d suddenly stick his head out and bite your finger off. “About what?”

Slowly, you poked your head out from behind your brother’s back, looking nervously between him and Gerson. Gerson’s grin had faded to a soft, gentle smile as he waited patiently for you to speak. You remember that you were already used to other monsters doing that… even if, back then as much as now, it did make you feel a bit childish.

“I want…” you said slowly. “To play.”

“Huh. A game?” Gerson had replied. “I’m a little too old for those these days! Wa ha ha!”

You shook your head. “No. The piano.”

Your brother looked down at you like you’d been possessed. “Kris?!”

Gerson only grinned again. “Wa ha ha! I never thought I’d see the day! Of course you can play, kiddo!” He tapped the side of the bench next to him. “C’mere, I’ll teach ya!”

“OK,” you said.

Gratefully, but also a little hesitantly, you let go of your brother’s paw and walked over to the bench. You climbed up onto it, taking a seat, and your brother walked over to stand next to you. He didn’t have to do that, but you still appreciated his presence - it was like a safety net, in case anything went wrong.

“Guessing you’ve never played piano before, huh, kiddo?” Gerson had said. “I mean, you’re, what, three?”

“Actually,” Asriel had interjected, “they’re five!”

“Wa ha ha!” Gerson laughed. “Is that so? They grow up so fast, don’t they? Or maybe I’m just getting old!”

You squirmed in your seat. You didn’t like people talking about you. But, soon enough, Gerson put his gnarled, clawed fingers on the piano keys.

“Now,” he said, “the first thing is finger placement. You’re a human -”

 _Why did everyone keep calling you that,_ you remember thinking, annoyed.

“ - so you’ve got hands like mine. Shouldn’t be too hard. Put your hands in a claw shape, or like you’re grasping something round, like a ball.”

You did, doing your best to imitate him.

“There you go, kiddo! Just like that. Now put those fingers on the keys…”

* * *

A few months after your fifth birthday, you had started attending school. You remember how you had liked the idea of school, at first. You had been eager to please your parents and your older brother, you were already an avid reader of books from the Librarby and were excited to learn even more, and your mother was your teacher! Everything about it had sounded perfect.

The problem was the other monsters.

It wasn’t that you were being bullied or anything, you just… didn’t want to talk to anyone. You didn’t like talking to anyone. And your brother was in a separate grade from you, so you didn’t have him to rely on anymore. You hated that.

But everyone _expected_ you to talk to them. They would try to be your friend or something like it, going “Hey, Kris!” or “hoi kris!” or “Kris, why don’t you read a _real_ book, like me?” They would try to sit with you at lunch, even though you always made sure to sit alone. Especially after that one time you tried to sit at the teacher’s table with your mother and she laughed and led you by the hand to sit with your peers. That had been _awful._

And every part of that, you found, extended to the Sunday School after services, the one that your parents put you in alongside Asriel. Your mother taught it too, reading passages from the Book, applying them to various life lessons, and giving out stars and stickers while calling her students things like “Scout” or “Comet” or “Eagle.” So you supposed it shouldn’t have been _too_ bad. And your brother _was_ there, so you could rely on him for group projects.

But everyone still wanted to talk to you, to get to know you better. And your mother seemed to desperately want you to participate more, because she always called on you to answer questions. You loved your mother, and you knew the answers, but the way the other monsters stared at you unsettled you. You hated all of it.

You remember that, one Sunday, your brother _wasn’t_ there. He had come down with some kind of illness, a cold or something. You had to do a group project, making miniature souls out of construction paper, and that meant picking someone to partner with.

You think you may have hated that most of all.

You had thought about partnering with Noelle. She had been the only one you really knew, even if you only knew her from that time you ran for dear life after she tried to say hello to you, but then you had wondered if that might be weird? Would she even want to talk to you after that? You decided not to find out.

You tried Temmie instead, but she was partnered with a hard-boiled egg. You decided not to try the weird, smug bird monster. You thought about asking Catty and her friend (?), a gator that you knew lived next door to her, but apparently the two of them had partnered up already. Or something, because the way they were glaring at each other didn’t make them seem much like partners.

Eventually, you had settled on a yellow monster, with spikes running down the back of their head, wearing a brown and yellow striped shirt and a necklace shaped like a lowercase T. You had noticed their shirt had no sleeves, because they had no arms, but you didn’t think much of it - many monsters didn’t. Some only had one arm, like Catty’s father, who never called anyone the right name. It wasn’t strange.

The only problem was you didn’t know their name. You’d seen them in your class, and you guessed their name must have come up then, but you didn’t remember it. So you had stared at them awkwardly, waiting for them to say something first.

“Yo!” they said, grinning up at you, as if you staring at them wasn’t strange at all. “You’re Kris, right?!”

You nodded.

“I don’t have a name or anything,” said the monster kid, “so just call me Monster Kid!”

You sat down on the floor, cross-legged, and continued staring at them. You remember how you couldn’t help but be curious, so you’d stuck your thumb in the corner of your mouth and asked them something. “You… don’t have a name?”

“Nope! I’m like you! Remember that thing you said? That you were ‘nothing’? I thought that was really cool! So I decided to be nothing too, haha!”

You nodded again. That made sense.

“Anyway, uh, I don’t have any arms,” they said, looking down towards the construction paper, marker, and wavy scissors in between you and them, “so I… can’t really help with this project? I guess I could draw the outline or something. With my face. Sorry, dude.”

“It’s OK,” you told them. And it had been - you knew from school that you preferred working alone anyway. “I can do it.”

“Really?!” said Monster Kid, grinning again. “Thanks, Kris! You’re the best!”

You remember that you took the marker and started to draw the shape of a soul, two-thirds of a triangle connected by a three. Supposedly, you remember thinking, humans had something like it but upside-down. You had thought humans sounded scary.

“Yo, is that a marshmallow-scented marker?” Monster Kid had shout-whispered as you tried to draw. You had been a little annoyed at them for interrupting, but you still looked at your marker anyway. Sure enough, it had said ‘marshmallow-scented’ on it. “I heard those smell _really good!”_

You had looked at them skeptically.

“I know this is kind of, uh, weird, haha, but can you… stick it up to my nose?” they said. “I won’t get snot on it! Promise!”

With a shrug, you stuck it up to their nose. They took a deep, deep huff of it, a blissful expression crossing their face.

“Yo, this smells _great!”_ they said, kicking their feet. “You got to try this, Kris!”

Still skeptical, you took the marker and brought it up to your nose. You had been half-expecting it to be poisonous, even though Monster Kid seemed fine, but you took a deep huff of it anyway.

It smelled _amazing._ It was like the smell of fresh hot chocolate, except multiplied by ten. You wanted to huff it again. You wanted to stick it up your nose, but you decided that would be gross.

You never got a chance to huff it a second time, though, because you heard giggling throughout the room and realized all the other monsters - and your mother - were staring at you. Your whole face became very hot. Monster Kid looked mortified.

“Kris, dearest,” your mother had said, surprisingly calmly. “That is… not what markers are for? If you wish to smell things so much, I will get you a scratch-and-sniff pad.”

You had almost burst into tears right there. You felt horrible, ashamed of yourself.

You decided to never do that again.

* * *

You remember how much your parents had loved each other. You had known that, and yet, sometimes, they fought. Sometimes, they even fought over _you._

Once, when you were still five, you’d walked out of the house to explore the outdoors. That was rare for you - you preferred the indoors, the Librarby. Maybe that’s where your father assumed you were going when you told him “outside” on your way out the door.

While you were outside, taking in the warm afternoon sun and the gentle breeze, leaves whipping around your legs, you saw something. It was a bird, hopping back and forth on a tree branch. It had some kind of straw in its beak, and was putting it in its nest.

 _A nest!_ you’d thought. _Maybe it had eggs!_

You wanted to see the eggs for yourself - maybe they’d be colored white and green, like the eggs your father had painted for your brother that one time. It was possible. You ran over to the tree and grabbed onto the side. With a little effort, you managed to get your shoes against the bark, and you shuffled up the side of the tree until you could reach a low-hanging branch. Then you grabbed onto the branch, hopped off the side of the tree, and hung on the branch like you were on a jungle gym.

You tried to pull yourself up, so you could get higher on the tree and see the eggs, but found… you couldn’t. No matter how much you strained, your weak arms could barely lift you up more than a few inches. You definitely couldn’t reach the other branch this way.

And… you had no way down now. You had no way down, and there was nobody to catch you. Foolishly, you looked towards the ground - and nearly let go of the branch in shock, because you were _so high up._ It felt like, if you fell, you would definitely die.

You started to scream.

“Mama! Papa! Somebody help!”

But nobody came. You could feel yourself losing your grip more and more every second - you nearly slipped off the branch, chunks of bark and leaves coming loose from it.

Suddenly, you heard a voice, a teenage girl’s voice.

“Omigod! Kris!” yelled Catty. “How’d you get up there?! I’ll… I’ll go get help!”

You nodded, holding on for dear life. You didn’t dare try to climb up higher again, but you weren’t sure how much longer you could last.

And then… and then…

You fell. Your sweaty hands slipped off the branch and then the tree was falling into the distance, the wind rushing past your ears as the ground came towards you...

And then you landed in someone’s arm, safe as can be.

“Whoa-ho-ho, Charlie!” said Catty’s father, grinning down at you as he cradled you in his arm. “That was a close one! How the heck’d you get up there?!”

“Uh, Dad, their name is Kris…” said Catty, looking you over. “You OK, Kris? You scared me half to death!”

You nodded rapidly, grateful for the rescue.

“Anyway, Charlie, better get you home,” Catty’s father said. “Your Ma’s gotta be worried sick about ya! It’s funny though, Charlie - you got rescued from a tree by a cat! Huh huh huh huh!”

Catty’s father set you down and took you back home. Your mother was waiting there when you arrived.

“Oh, Kris! There you are!” she said. “Where have you been?! I was worried sick!”

“I told Father where I was going…” you said.

Your father, on cue, came up behind her, smiling sheepishly. Your mother glared at him. “And he let you go out by yourself?”

“And climb trees!” said Catty’s father. “That’s where I found ‘em - up a tree! Huh huh huh huh!”

“They did what?!” Toriel demanded. Catty’s father just smiled at her, his tail wagging back and forth. “Unbelievable! I am not sure who I should punish more, Kris - you or your father!”

You looked back and forth between your father and your mother. You could almost feel the anger radiating off your mother - you’d never seen her this angry at your father before.

“Inside. Now.”

“Yes, dear,” said your father, retreating indoors.

“Thank you for watching over my child, Mr. Caterson,” your mother said to Catty’s father, smiling at him. “At least _somebody_ does.”

“No problem, Mrs. Jones!” he replied. “Happy to help!”

With that, you were sent to your room, where you were grounded from video games for a week.

But, even back then, you suspected from all your mother’s scolding that your father was given a much worse punishment…

* * *

You remember how you’d played the piano for over a year with Gerson, every week after Sunday School at his home. You’d already made a lot of progress - you could read the notes and translate them to the keys well enough, you understood measures and tempo, and you were beginning to learn how to play chords.

It was basic, even you understood that, but it felt good. It was one of those rare things, like reading books at the Librarby, that was uniquely _yours_ \- not just a pale imitation of your brother. Not something your parents wanted out of you, like getting good grades. It was something you’d chosen.

The only problem was, since you’d asked to play at Gerson’s private piano instead of the one at church, nobody heard you play. And that was a little disappointing. You wanted an audience, like Gerson had. You wanted to impress them with your growing skills, to show that you had done something worthy of praise.

So you asked Gerson if you could learn a hymn, a simple one, so you could play it at church. He’d laughed, but you knew him well enough to know he wasn’t laughing at you - he just hadn’t been expecting you, of all people, to want to play piano in front of a live audience.

So you’d spent the next few months practicing, and practicing, and practicing, one of the hymns, “ _O Angel.”_ Instead of going to Gerson’s house every week, you went every day, after school - your parents encouraged it, seeing it as good for you. You could tell it made them happy, and that it made Gerson happy too, and that made you feel good about yourself.

You remember, one day, how you decided to ask Gerson to take your practicing a step further. While you played, he would sing, like the two of you were really at church. He’d laughed again, like he always did, saying that he was _far_ too old to be doing any singing and his voice would “bust your eardrums, kiddo.” But he’d agreed anyway.

So you’d sat in front of the grand piano, which was still far too big for you to reach most of the keys without stretching, while Gerson stood behind you with his own hymnal at the ready. You stretched your hands out, wiggled your fingers, and put them on the keys, while Gerson coughed hoarsely a few times.

“Ready?” he said at last. “Gonna count from three.”

“I’m ready,” you replied.

“One… two… three.”

He took a breath, and then you started to play, concentrating with all your might on the sheet music in front of you.

_“Angel, O Angel, we pray your words be true,_

_Angel, O Angel, for we believe in you...”_

Gerson had been right. His voice was throaty and hoarse and a little too loud, but you didn’t mind it. It was soothing, in its own way. Familiar, as familiar as your parent’s voices.

_“Angel, O Angel, although we heed your call,_

_Angel, O Angel, do not destroy us all…”_

You continued playing. So far, you were keeping up, but these were the easy parts, the parts you’d practiced the most. It wasn’t that the song was _too_ difficult, you’d picked an easy one, but…

_Plink._

You’d hit the wrong key. You cringed.

Gerson carried on, as if nothing had happened.

“ _Angel, O Angel…”_

You didn’t keep playing. You tried to find the note Gerson was on as he continued singing, scanning ahead, and found it. An… an… what note was it? That was an E#, wasn’t it? Or was it an F#? You couldn’t… you couldn’t remember. Why couldn’t you remember?!

Gerson had stopped singing, but you barely even noticed. What you did notice was the way the notes in front of you seemed to be warping and twisting, the little black circles and lines dominating your vision. You noticed the way your whole body was trembling, your breathing becoming faster and faster.

What was the note, your brain demanded?

_What was the note?_

Your tiny hands clenched into tiny fists. You lifted them up and _slammed_ them into the piano keys, letting out a violent **CLANG.**

 _You failure,_ you thought. Images of B+s and Bs on your report cards flashed through your mind, next to images of your brother proudly displaying all his As. _You failure._

You hit the keys again. **CLANG.**

What were you thinking? **CLANG.**

How dare you waste Mr. Boom’s time? **CLANG.**

As if there’d ever be anything you could be good at. **CLANG.**

It’s almost funny, just how much of a joke _you are._ **CLANG.**

It _was_ funny. You laughed as you kept attacking the keys, and kept laughing. There was something so funny about it, you couldn’t stop.

It felt good.

But, from somewhere in the back of your mind, you heard something over the clangs, over the throbbing of your reddened fists.

It was the sound of someone wheezing and coughing.

You turned around and Gerson had fallen over. You could barely see him through the tears in your eyes - when had you started crying? - but he was holding himself up with only one trembling arm. He was clutching his chest with his other hand, and the floor in front of him was covered in spittle.

You felt your stomach sink, but you were frozen in place, unsure what to do.

“Dial…” Gerson managed to choke out. “Dial 911…”

You looked around. There was a landline phone on a wall nearby, so you hopped off the piano bench and sprinted over to it. As quickly as you could, your vision still blurring and your hands still shaking, you dialed 911.

A deep, gravelly voice answered immediately. It was that cop with the yellow eyes and blue skin. You couldn’t remember her name. “Hometown P.D.! What’s your emergency?!”

You started shouting into the phone before you could even think about what you were saying. “Mr. Boom!”

“Kris?!” yelled the cop. “What’s going on?!”

“I… I killed Mr. Boom!” you continued shouting. “We were… we were playing piano, and… and I got mad, and he’s _dead!”_

There was a brief pause and a sharp breath from the other end of the line. “OK, OK, stay calm, kid. You’re at Gerson - er, Mr. Boom’s house, right?”

You nodded, stupidly, then said, “Yes.”

“OK. And is he breathing?”

You looked over to him. He was still coughing, which meant… which meant you hadn’t killed him.

“...Yes.”

“Alright, good. You stay with him, OK? Get him some water, have him sit down. I’ll have an ambulance over there in a jiffy. He’ll be fine, promise!”

You nodded, sniffling. “OK. T-thank you.”

“No problem, kid! I’m going to hang up now, alright? You do what I said!”

You nodded again, even though the cop couldn’t see you, and the phone went to a dial tone. You hung it back on the receiver, then went to Gerson’s kitchen and fetched some water. By the time you had returned with it, sat Gerson back up, and helped him drink, he’d stopped coughing as violently.

“Don’t blame yourself, kiddo,” he said hoarsely, rubbing your back. “I’m old. Happens all the time.”

You heard an ambulance siren and a vehicle pulling into Gerson’s driveway. Surprisingly, the blue cop had arrived with the ambulance. When she threw open the door, she nearly knocked it off its hinges.

“GERSON!” she shouted.

“Oh, quit your yelling, Undyne!” Gerson shouted back, before coughing again. “You’ll give me another heart attack!”

The blue cop - Undyne - sprinted into the room and picked Gerson off of the ground, under the crook of one arm. “Whatever! We’re taking you to the hospital, on the double!”

Then she looked down at you. She tousled your hair.

“Thanks, Kris. I owe you one.”

She sprinted off with Gerson. You weren’t sure what she owed you _for,_ you thought as you walked over to the phone and called your house to get picked up. It all felt like your fault.

You never wanted to play piano again.

* * *

You remember how you had been so busy practicing with Gerson that you’d forgotten that, months ago, your parents had scheduled you for a ceremony called the Rebirth. You’d seen it done to many other young monsters, many times - Father Alvin would lead them into a tub of water that overlooked the pews, dip them under the water for only a second, and then proclaim that the child had received the blessings of the Angel and the promise of a life in the Angel’s Heaven.

It was the “third birth” that Father Alvin had suggested to you when you’d chosen your name. You knew that, and you knew it was important to your parents, to your brother, who had all participated in the Rebirth when they were young. You had known that, and yet…

You hated water, and you hated baths most of all. Baths and showers - you were sure you would drown, or be dragged into the drainpipes, or slip and crack your skull. You’d been so terrified of those possibilities that, when you were even smaller, your mother had to drag you, literally kicking and screaming, into the bathtub. It was _miserable._ If it wasn’t for your mother getting annoyed with you if you didn’t take one every other day, you wouldn’t take one at all.

And now, on top of that, there was an increasingly loud part of you that felt that you didn’t _deserve_ to be part of the Angel’s Heaven, to participate in a ceremony as sacred as the Rebirth. Gerson had been in the hospital for a week now because of you, and you were so sure that the other monsters blamed you for it too. You stayed cooped up in your bedroom as much as possible, but whenever you had to leave to go to school, you could feel their stares on your back, judging you.

Whatever an Angel was supposed to be like, you knew that you were its antonym.

A demon.

You had decided, the Saturday before your Rebirth would occur, to tell your parents you didn’t want to do it. You had approached them as your father sat watching football and your mother sat on her chair with a pair of reading glasses, knitting a quilt. You’d stood in front of them silently until they noticed you.

“Kris, dearest?” your mother had said at last, in a gentle, soothing tone. “What is it?”

Your father had turned to look at you, muting the television. “Ah, Kris, is something wrong...?”

You had clenched your fists, looking down towards the ground. Now that you were actually in front of them, you almost couldn’t bring yourself to say anything. You knew they’d be disappointed in you, and you dreaded that more than anything.

Your mother seemed to catch on to what was worrying you. She smiled.

“Kris, is this about the ceremony?” she said.

You nodded.

“Ah, I see. Are you afraid?”

Again, you nodded.

“Just remember,” your mother said, “have faith in the Angel, and they will guide you on your path to the Angel’s Heaven. It is as the Book says - ‘for it is when thou art at thine most afraid that the Angel’s wings will envelop and protect thee.’”

You were… not reassured. You didn’t feel any wings enveloping you at all. You felt more like a wave of the sea - blown and tossed by the wind.

But you said nothing to her. You only stared at the floor.

“Perhaps…” your father had said eventually. “We should have the ceremony another time? When Kris is ready.”

You looked up, surprised, and saw that your mother’s smile had faded.

“Do not be foolish, dear,” she said to your father, with a tone of voice she only really reserved for you. “We have planned this for months. We have already announced it in the church newsletter. This is going to be an important day for all of us.” She turned back towards you, smiling again. “Kris especially.”

“I…” you stammered out, your voice barely above a whisper. You gulped. “I… don’t…”

Your mother smiled at you, but she visibly tensed. “Yes, Kris?”

You couldn’t do it, you realized. You couldn’t let her know you didn’t want to be part of the ceremony. That you didn’t _ever_ want to be part of it.

“N-nothing,” you said. Looking back down towards the floor and sticking your hands in your pockets, you started to walk back towards your room.

As you walked away, you heard your father say, “Tori, dear, don’t you think you’re being a little harsh?” and your mother reply, “Whatever do you mean?”

Fortunately, you weren’t alone that day, so you didn’t do what you wanted to do, which was go into your bed and cry. Your brother was there, and you spent the next few hours until dinner playing Super Smash Fighters with him. You felt a little better.

But it only delayed the inevitable. The next day arrived soon enough.

You went to church services and were escorted behind the balcony overlooking the pews. You changed into a white robe, like the ones the choir children wore, and were led in a line of other children to be Reborn. When it was your turn, Father Alvin and one of his curates greeted you warmly as you descended the steps leading into the tub of water. Unlike every other Rebirth, Gerson wasn’t playing piano over it - someone else had temporarily replaced him.

“Are you ready?” Father Alvin had whispered to you, distracting you from your thoughts. You didn’t want to say ‘no,’ even though that’s how you felt, so you nodded. “Cross your arms over your chest.”

You did. Father Alvin and his curate put one hand each on your back and their other one against your arms, bracing you. You already felt claustrophobic, trapped, and you could feel your soul pounding against your chest. Father Alvin turned towards the pews, far below. You couldn’t see them, but you imagined your mother, father, and brother staring up at you from down there, and it only made the sense of dread in the pit of your stomach worse.

Your breathing was getting heavy.

“Relax,” whispered the curate. “This will only take a second. It’s like taking a bath.”

You tried to slow down your breathing, to stay calm. You couldn’t.

“My siblings, children of the Angel!” announced Father Alvin loudly - too loudly. “Today, we bless another life! Today, we grant them the gift of the Angel’s salvation! Today, Kris Dreemurr is reborn!”

“One…” whispered the curate. “Two… three.”

You closed your eyes and took a deep breath, and then you were falling, descending. Father Alvin and his curate were firmly grasping your back as they rapidly began to lower you into the water, and you could feel the rush of air past your ears as you went down, down, down into nothingness, into the abyss, into _death…_

You screamed. Father Alvin and his curate both stopped midway to the water, but you kept screaming, and screaming, and screaming. Your screams died in your throat, becoming loud, choking sobs. You kept blubbering, tears rolling down your face, unable to stop.

Father Alvin looked very, very confused, and his curate even more so, but after a moment, he turned towards the pews and said jovially, “Well, first time for everything, I suppose!”

Quickly, and while still bawling your eyes out, you were led out of the tub by the curate. The curate led you into one of the back rooms where you’d changed into the white robes, handed you a towel, and awkwardly patted your shoulder before rushing off and leaving you alone. You didn’t bother to change out of your robes - you weren’t even all that wet.

You aren’t sure how long you sat there, crying into the towel, before you heard voices. One of them was the curate’s voice, but the other’s… it was your mother.

“Ma’am, you can’t…”

“Do not tell me what I can and cannot do. That is _my child._ I _will_ see them.”

You heard your mother’s heavy footsteps approaching you. You couldn’t bring yourself to look up at her - you just thought of how ashamed, how embarrassed, she must have been of you, and continued to sob.

“Kris…” she said softly, and you felt a furry paw on your shoulder, soothingly rubbing it.

You wanted to say so many things to her. _I’m sorry. I’m a failure. I ruined everything._ But you couldn’t manage to say a single word. You just opened and closed your mouth, over and over, and continued to cry.

“May I hug you...?”

She’d asked you. She’d remembered you didn’t like hugs and so she’d asked you. Your mother was… so kind, you thought.

You nodded, sniffling, and then your mother got down to her knees. Her giant, warm body enveloped you - not too softly, like you were a porcelain doll, but not too tightly either. You sobbed into her beautiful Sunday dress. You wanted to call out “mama,” like you were a baby, but you still couldn’t speak.

“Kris,” you heard your mother say, as she patted your back, “this was all my fault, was it not? I was selfish… selfish and foolish. I should have listened to you. I should have realized how afraid you were. I am… deeply, deeply sorry.”

You wanted to reassure her, to tell her that no, it was _your_ fault. You were the coward here, the one afraid of water, the one who didn’t have enough faith in the Angel’s power, and she was blameless. But, as much as you thought those things, you still couldn’t say them.

At last, your mother released the hug and put a paw on your shoulder. “Your father and brother are waiting for us downstairs. Go get changed and we will get some hot chocolate… how does that sound?”

You still felt ashamed of yourself, but you nodded.

“Then I will see you in a moment,” your mother said, before she started to walk out of the room. “Be good, Kris.”

The moment she left, you changed into your old clothes, the slacks and the green and yellow striped sweater. As you started to leave, you passed Monster Kid, just finishing with their Rebirth.

“Yo, Kris!” they shouted. “You OK, dude? What was all _that_ about? That really freaked me out, haha!”

You ignored them and went downstairs to rejoin your family.

* * *

Your family drove to the diner, where the four of you all ordered hot chocolate. It was the same as every other Sunday, even with the awkwardness of your failure to participate in the Rebirth hanging over your head.

Just to emphasize how like every other Sunday it was, as you sat waiting for your hot chocolate, a purple dinosaur girl came in and tried to steal a ham sandwich from the “Free Ham Sandwich Day!” display that was put up every week. The bunny cashier, as usual, noticed her and tried to explain to her that it was only “Free Ham Sandwich Day” if you bought something else first, like a drink. The dinosaur girl responded by grabbing a ham sandwich, stuffing it into her face, and shrugging as she walked backwards out of the diner.

You wondered what was with that girl. The free ham sandwiches weren’t _that_ good.

When your hot chocolate arrived, it was just the way you always liked it - covered in more marshmallows than actual hot chocolate. Your mother always admonished you for it, saying it was bad for your health, but you didn’t really care. You liked the marshmallows the best. Besides, they melted fast, so if you took too long to eat them, you’d run out of marshmallows. That meant more marshmallows was better.

Still, as you ate your marshmallows and carefully sipped your hot chocolate, there was something… strange and awkward about today. Nobody was speaking to each other. Usually, when you went to the diner, it was full of lively conversation between your family members - ribbing from your brother, bad jokes from your dad, your mother teasing you light-heartedly about something or other.

Now everyone was silent. The longer it went on, the less and less you found you could enjoy your hot chocolate. This was your fault, after all. Everyone felt awkward because of _you._ Because _you_ had failed to participate in the Rebirth, like all good children were supposed to.

“I’m sorry,” you said eventually, staring down into your mug. “I’m really sorry.”

Instantly, your mother took your hands in her paws, your father smiled at you, and your brother laid against your side.

“Do not apologize,” your mother said. “I am the one who should be sorry.”

“You weren’t ready yet, Kris,” your brother said. “Don’t feel bad. The Rebirth is pretty scary, when you think about it.”

“Yes,” said your father. “Why, even I was afraid, back then. It’s understandable that you would be frightened. Do not fret, child - we all understand.”

You smiled at them, without looking up from your mug, a small blush rising to your cheeks. Your family always had a way of making you feel better. You were so grateful for them.

“But…” you said quietly, your smile fading. “Aren’t you… embarrassed?”

Your father laughed, a soft chuckle. “Of course not.”

“I’ve done _way_ more embarrassing things than that, Kris,” your brother said, grinning at you.

“He has,” your mother added. “Why, I remember, when he was just four years old…”

“Mom!”

You laughed. The rest of your family laughed too.

Yes, this was more like it.

“Ah, I was thinking…” your father said, after you’d all stopped laughing. “Kris, Asriel. Is there anything you two want for Holly Day? I think I could get it early for you. Provided it’s not too expensive.”

“Ooh!” said your brother instantly. “Um, how about _The Epic of Sabrina: The Harpsichord of Light_? It’s brand new!”

You nodded. You wanted to play that game too. You loved the Sabrina games, and you especially loved watching your brother play them.

“Then I will get it for you,” your father said, smiling.

Your mother, though, seemed surprised by your father’s offer. She looked quizzically at Asgore.

“Dear,” she said quietly.

Your father nervously adjusted his tie. “Er, yes?”

“You did not think to consult me before making this offer?” your mother whispered.

Your father frowned, his shoulders slumping. “...Ah. I did not. But I promise you, we can afford it. I have considered our budget…”

“Dear, we can barely afford _groceries…”_ she said, before looking at you meaningfully. “But let us not discuss this now. We will talk about this in private.” She smiled. “Let us instead talk about how brave Kris was for trying to participate in the Rebirth, despite their fears.”

“Yes,” said your father, looking grateful for the change in subject. He lifted his mug. “Let us have a toast to Kris for their bravery.”

“Here, here!” said your brother, grinning.

You almost felt like they were making fun of you, but you lifted your mug for a toast anyway. Your brother, mother, father, and yourself clinked your mugs together and took a big gulp of each of your hot chocolates.

Maybe it was just the warmth of the hot chocolate, but you felt a warmth in your chest. It almost made you forget entirely about your father and mother’s little argument over the video game.

Soon enough, though, the hot chocolate was finished, and it was time to go back home. You left in surprisingly high spirits - even more than when you usually went to the diner with your family. You really, really loved having your family around. You couldn’t imagine how things would be without them.

* * *

On the drive back home, you dared to ask a question that had been on your mind - “I’ll be part of the Rebirth someday, right, mother?”

“Of course,” your mother reassured you. “You are welcome to be a part of the Rebirth whenever you are ready.” She smiled at you through the rear-view mirror. “Even if it takes you until you are a hundred years old.”

But you were never given a chance to be ready. As far as you were concerned, you were never Reborn at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the many people who betaed this chapter, including IvySnowy, [light_rises](https://archiveofourown.org/users/light_rises/pseuds/light_rises), and [AMX004_Qubeley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AMX004_Qubeley/pseuds/AMX004_Qubeley).
> 
> Credit to the translated Cruel Angel's Thesis lyrics from http://leeandlie.blogspot.com, and specifically this video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZmJ5oBdJTXQ


	2. Things Fall Apart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mr. Gerson was the closest friend you'd ever had. 
> 
> But would he be with you forever?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _You see right through the mess inside me_   
>  _And you call me out to pull me in_   
>  _You tell me I can start again_   
>  _And I don't need to keep on hiding_
> 
> _\- Known, Tauren Wells_
> 
> Content warnings in this chapter for: canon character death, both grievous and mild injuries to a child, feelings of anxiety and lack of self-worth, blood, hospitalization, and panic attacks.

Gerson wasn’t getting better.

You’d been told that he’d be out of the hospital in a matter of days, but it’d been over a week and he was still there.

And it was all your fault. _Your fault._ There was no doubt in your mind that you’d _killed him._

You went to your mother every single day, desperately asking her if Gerson had been released yet. Whenever she told you that he was still sick, you felt your soul nearly shatter - you became so upset that you became sick yourself, losing all your energy, all your motivation to do anything. You had to stay in bed instead of going to school.

One morning, you didn’t even ask your mother. You just stayed in bed, buried under your blankets, convinced today would be the day that Gerson would breathe his last. You dreaded the news like it was your own death they’d be announcing.

So your mother came to you. She sat a chair by your bedside, offered you a hot chocolate, and listened to you.

No matter how much you blubbered to “mama” about how you’d “killed Mr. Boom,” she assured you that he would be alright. That she’d known Gerson all her life, and he’d never once given up, no matter how bleak things looked. That he was the hero of this little town and he wouldn’t let something as meager as a mere heart attack stop him.

Eventually, your mother’s soothing words reached your ears, and you relaxed and drank your hot chocolate.

But, you said, wouldn’t Mr. Boom never want to see you again? You’d nearly killed him. Why would he want to be your teacher, or even your friend? Why would _anyone_ want to be your friend?

But Gerson, your mother reminded you, was a friend to everyone. She told you that she had no doubt that he would care for you just as much as he had before.

In spite of all your fears, you believed her. Your mother was like that - you always believed everything she said, because you loved her with everything you had.

You felt better.

* * *

The next Wednesday, Gerson was released from the hospital with a clean bill of health. One of the very first things he did was visit you at your home. You were still staying cooped up in your bedroom, at the time, but you remembered what your mother had said and let him in. After all, there was no way he could hate you for what you’d done… right?

Your brother left, giving the two of you some privacy to chat, and Gerson went and climbed up onto your bed, placing his cane next to him and sitting next to you. You pulled your knees up to your chest, burying your face in your legs, and didn’t speak to him.

“Hey, kiddo,” he said eventually. You looked towards him, but he wasn’t looking your direction, but at the ceiling. “I know all that mess must have scared the living daylights of you.”

You gave a small, noncommittal shrug.

“Well, you scared the living daylights out of me, so I guess we’re even!” he said, grinning at you. You didn’t laugh, though, and his face fell. He scratched his head. “Sorry. That wasn’t funny.” He sighed. “Anyway, what I was trying to say is… don’t let it get to you, OK, kiddo? You know how many times Officer Undyne has seen me have heart attacks? I’ve lost count. And this old ticker’s still tickin’ just fine. I ain’t dyin’ any time soon.”

You didn’t really feel reassured, but you nodded. “OK.”

“That’s, uh, not really what I came to talk to you about though,” Gerson said. “I came to ask… if you still want to join me for piano lessons.”

You unburied your face from your legs and stared at him. Was he being serious? After you’d done _that?_ After you’d nearly killed him? Your mother might have said otherwise, but that he still wanted to be anywhere near you felt like a miracle. That he still wanted to play piano with you seemed like a joke.

“Huh?” you said.

“Piano lessons, kiddo,” he repeated. “Look, I saw you when you played. You were _good_ at it, better than I was at your age, but that ain’t the important thing. What really mattered is that you were happy. Real happy. Happiest I’ve ever seen you. Your Ma and Pa told me the same thing. That you’d always come home, smilin’ your head off.”

He motioned towards his chest, smiling. “And it did this old heart good too, teaching a young’un like yourself. It’s been a long, long time since I taught anyone how to play piano, and to tell the truth? You were my favorite student. Best I’ve ever had.”

You kept staring at him. You thought about what he’d said, and a little warm feeling fluttered in your chest. You _did_ miss playing the piano already. You _had_ been happy playing it.

“But it’s up to you, kiddo, not me,” Gerson continued. “I mean, it’d be a shame if you stopped playing because of some li’l old heart attack… but I ain’t gonna force you or nothing.”

“I’ll do it,” you said. “I’ll play.”

Gerson grinned at you. “Really?!” He reached out like he was going to slap you on the back, or tousle your hair, but seemed to decide against it. “Glad to hear it! You have your parents drop you off any time, y’hear?”

“OK,” you said. You gave him a small smile. “Thank you, Mr. Boom.”

Gerson grinned again. “Nah, I told you, you don’t have to call me that. Just Gerson’s fine!”

* * *

As the weeks went on, you found you looked forward to two things every week: practicing piano with Gerson and Sunday School.

Truthfully, you still hadn’t actually liked Sunday School all that much. Hanging out with Monster Kid was OK, even if now they were hanging out with their new friend Snowy who was more than a little bit of a class clown. But you still didn’t like the way your mother was always asking you questions, and you still felt like everyone was laughing at you behind your back for the incident with the marshmallow-scented markers. Plus, your brother was too old for Sunday School now - he’d graduated to youth group, so you couldn’t rely on him for group projects.

But there was one part you liked so much that it nearly made up for all the bad parts.

It was the fruit juice.

Every afternoon, when it was time for lunch, your mother would hand out homemade PB&J sandwiches and boxes of prepackaged fruit juice to all the students in her Sunday School class. You could take or leave the sandwiches - your mother was a great cook, but they were just like the ones at home - but the fruit juice was _divine._ Your mother always had different flavors prepared: apple, lemon, pineapple, grape, orange, and watermelon were just a few of them.

You gravitated, without fail, to the apple juice. It was the perfect apple juice - even before you stuck the little plastic straw into the opening, you could smell the smell of apples wafting from the box, and it made you drool. When you actually got to drink it, you could barely slow down and savor it - you drank every last drop in seconds, until the box was a crumpled, airless mess, a blissful expression crossing your face every time.

It was too bad you were only allowed to have one. Otherwise, you’d drink all the apple juice your mother had.

Once, Monster Kid had stared at you as you drank your apple juice.

“Hey, uh, you make that look really good… can I have some?”

With a shrug, you held out the apple juice box and let them drink from it. They’d made a face and immediately recoiled.

“Ugh, this tastes terrible!” they’d said. “No offense, dude, but what do you see in this stuff…?”

 _Oh well_ , you thought, as you drank more apple juice. _More for me._

* * *

Soon after your seventh birthday, it was time. Just as you’d been preparing for months and months now for, practicing until you could practically play blindfolded, the day had arrived where you’d be playing piano in front of the entire church.

You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t been scared. Not just that you’d mess up, but that you’d do something horrible again, and in front of everyone, in front of your entire family. It almost made you not want to do it.

Gerson, though, had been constantly reassuring you. He showed you that even he made mistakes when playing piano all the time, and that nobody ever noticed - he just kept playing as if he’d done nothing wrong. And, with practice, you’d learned to do that too. Instead of panicking when you hit the wrong note, now you would just move on to the next one.

And Gerson, as well as your family, had told you that even if you _did_ screw up, nobody would care. Nobody was expecting you, Gerson reminded you, to be a piano virtuoso at age seven. Everyone just wanted you to do your best, and they’d support you all the way.

That had made you feel a bit better, but you had still been more than a little afraid. Playing at Gerson’s house was one thing, but playing in front of a hundred people, the entire town, was another.

But there was nothing you could do. You could hardly tell everyone that you didn’t want to play after all - that would just disappoint them _even more._ And, on top of that, a tiny part of you didn’t actually want to not play. There was still that little voice in your head that had wanted to do this in the first place, to show off your piano skills to the entire town, and for once, you were going to listen to it.

So you’d gotten dressed in your purple, Delta-Rune-emblazoned robes that day, going to church with a mix of anticipation and anxiety. That anxiety had only grown as Father Alvin had smiled at you from across the nave, turned to the pews, and said, “Today, we are blessed to give you all a very special demonstration. Kris Dreemurr, child of Toriel and Asgore, sibling of Asriel, has graciously offered to join Brother Boom in a recital of _O Angel._ If you would all kindly open your hymnals to Hymn 102…”

Your family stared expectantly at you, waiting for you to get up and walk to the piano.

“We believe in you, Kris!” your brother shout-whispered at you.

“You can do this, Kris,” said your father.

“I love you, dear one,” said your mother.

You stood up from the pew and started the long walk down the nave. Your legs felt like jelly. Father Alvin continued to smile at you, and you gave him your best attempt at a smile back - it probably wasn’t very good.

Once you arrived at the piano, where Gerson was sitting, Gerson said quietly, “You got this, kiddo. Just like we practiced.”

You nodded at him and sat down on the bench, stretching your fingers out. The book of sheet music was already opened to _O Angel -_ you could almost hear the rising initial notes in your head as you looked at them on the page.

“Are you ready, Kris?” said Father Alvin, and you turned to him and nodded. “Then I will start on three.”

You took a deep breath and put your hands in the proper position.

“One… two… three.”

You pressed the first notes, a held D followed by an E, then a C, then another D and E. As you played, the choir, and all the members of church, began to sing along with it…

_“Angel, O Angel, we pray your words be true,_

_Angel, O Angel, for we believe in you...”_

_“Angel, O Angel, although we heed your call,_

_Angel, O Angel, do not destroy us all...”_

_“Angel, O Angel, your mighty wings unfurl'd_

_Angel, O Angel, empty this sinful world...”_

You tried not to focus on their voices. You simply let the music, the notes in front of you, wash over you as you continued to play, and play, and play, until...

_Plink._

You’d missed a note.

But you didn’t stop. Just like Gerson had taught you, you kept playing as if nothing had happened. And, sure enough, nothing _did_ happen. The choir didn’t stop singing. The priest didn’t glare angrily at you. The members of the church didn’t riot. Everyone just kept singing, and you kept playing, and it was _good._

“ _Angel, O Angel, may you return someday…_

_Angel, O Angel, may you take us all away.”_

After what felt like only a few seconds, but what must have been minutes, you reached the end of the song. You let out a deep sigh, releasing a breath you didn’t even know you’d been holding.

Instantly, the entire church filled with cheers and applause, an almost deafening tsunami of noise. Even Father Alvin clapped, but nowhere near as hard as Gerson sitting next to you.

“I knew you could do it, kiddo!” he said. “Get your butt out there and bow!”

You saw Father Alvin motioning for you to join him, and you quickly climbed off the piano bench and walked up to the front of the stage. You weren’t sure how to bow, exactly, but you did your best, nearly falling over as you awkwardly bent your torso towards the floor.

Once that was done, you started to walk down the nave, back towards your family. Your soul was still pounding so fast you were afraid it might burst out of your chest, but you relaxed a little when you saw your family had climbed out of their seats and were waiting to hug you. There were tears in your mother and father’s eyes, and your brother had never looked happier.

You saw… something else, though. Something strange.

In the middle of the nave was a kind of shining, pulsating, flickering gray light. It was as if a star had descended from the Angel’s Heaven and landed in the middle of church, but that didn’t make any sense, especially because nobody else was reacting to it. Everyone just clapped and clapped, like there was nothing abnormal in the room at all.

You approached the light and reached out to it, and…

You weren’t sure what happened. It was like a dream. But you could have sworn you saw your name flash in your vision. And you could have sworn you felt something too. It wasn’t that the light, as bright as it was, made you feel sick or made your head pound. It was more like the light - no, like some kind of power - was shining… within you. The power of piano. The power of the Angel. The power of your family’s love. You couldn’t place what it was, not exactly.

And then the light was gone. You walked over to your family, wondering if you should tell them about what you’d seen, but decided it was… too creepy.

Your family wrapped you up in a huge group hug. You could hear them all cheering for you, saying things like “You were amazing, Kris!” and “Excellent work, Kris.” and “Oh, Kris, I am so proud!”, but all you could think of was the light.

It’d be a long time before you saw it again.

* * *

You were eight years old, in the third grade, when your brother grew his pair of pink horns. You’d been amazed by them, even more than Asriel had been proud of them - your father and mother had horns, so it made sense that your brother would grow them too, but it was still _so cool._ You wanted a pair of your own too. When were _yours_ going to grow?

When you’d asked that, your parents had given each other a Look.

“Why, of course you will grow horns, dearest one,” your mother had said to you, smiling. “It just takes time.”

“Yes,” your father agreed. “Why, I didn’t grow my horns until I was Asriel’s age!”

“Ah, but if… if you do not grow horns after all,” your mother quickly added, “that is fine too. After all, my horns are quite small, compared to your father’s. Horns or no horns, it does not make you any less of a monster.”

“But…” you said glumly. “I want horns like Asriel’s…”

Your mother, for some reason, looked happy to hear you say that. She looked like her heart was going to burst.

She pulled you into a tight, tight hug. You froze in her arms - you didn’t like hugs, and she usually asked you first.

“Oh, I am sorry for hugging you,” she said, releasing you and beaming. “It is just… I am so happy that you wish to be like your older brother. I promise you, dearest one, you will have horns sooner than you think.”

And she winked.

The very next day, you woke up to find that you had a pair of horns on your head. They were a bright red, unlike your brother’s, but they were _perfect_. You weren’t stupid - you knew they weren’t _real_ \- but they made you more like your older brother, like your family, so you decided you’d never, ever remove them.

At least until your real horns grew in.

* * *

You were nine years old, in the fourth grade, when your brother showed you a different kind of “horns,” ones he made with his hands instead of growing on his head. You remember that you had been in the middle of trying to solve a difficult math problem, the area of a quadrilateral. It had been difficult for _you,_ anyway. You had never been any good at math - you greatly preferred losing yourself in a good work of literature to formulas and fractions.

Your brother, though, had excelled at math, and he was six years older than you, so this should have been especially easy for him. So you had decided to ask your brother for help.

But when you had looked up from where you were seated on your bed to your brother’s desk, he was… shutting his eyes and playing air guitar, leaning dangerously far back in his office chair.

Oh _,_ you realized, noticing the black earbuds in his big, floppy white ears. He was listening to music. That wasn’t weird, except that he was _supposed_ to be doing homework, like you. You don’t know how he managed to keep up his perfect grades when he slacked off from studying. You _never_ seemed to have time to slack off these days.

...And what was he listening to? Something to air guitar to… well, your mother would never approve of him listening to the kind of “punk music” Catty and Bratty listened to, or the “death metal” Monster Kid secretly liked. You knew that because Monster Kid had once tried to get you to listen to some “death metal,” and you could feel your mother’s disgust at the screeching cacophony of noise from all the way across Hometown.

You climbed off your bed, deciding to investigate. You walked over behind your brother’s chair and, without saying a word, tapped him on the shoulder.

Your brother nearly jumped a foot into the air, putting one of his paws over his chest. His chair nearly toppled over, spinning on its axis, and it took him a minute to right it before he finally noticed you standing patiently next to him.

“K-Kris!” he said, adjusting his glasses and taking his earbuds out of his ears. “Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

“Sorry.”

He sighed. “Don’t worry about it. What’s up?”

“What were you listening to?” you said, pointing towards his discarded earbuds.

You saw a visible blush cross his face. He scratched the back of his head. “Uh, nothing much… I mean, Dad said I could, so it’s fine! And besides, it’s all _technically_ about church and the Angel and stuff anyway, so it’s cool, right?”

You supposed that made sense. If it was like the hymns you heard at church, it should be alright with your mother.

“Can I listen to it?” you asked, tilting your head.

“Yeah!” your brother said, smiling. “Yeah, of course! Here, I’ll scoot over…” Without standing up, he scooted his chair a few inches to the left so you could stand in front of his computer. You walked over to join him and he handed you the right earpiece of his earbuds. “Put this in your ear, OK?”

You put it in your right ear, your brother leaning down so that both of your heads were next to each other. You could still feel it straining the earbuds’ cord anyway, but you supposed this would do.

“OK, I’m going to restart the song. Just a second…”

You saw him move his mouse to control his music player, which was apparently called MediaMonster, and felt a pang of jealousy as he restarted a track called “It Was A Dark and Stormy Night.” Why didn’t _you_ get a computer? Why couldn’t _you_ listen to music? But you forgot all about those thoughts when the music actually began.

With the exception of Monster Kid’s “death metal,” it was unlike anything you’d heard before, and it wasn’t much like _that_ either. All the instruments were ones you’d only heard of - horns and electric guitars playing a steady, rhythmic beat that wasn’t too calm or too chaotic. It certainly didn’t sound spiritual to you, but it was… unique.

A male vocalist began to sing. You listened closely to the lyrics…

_“It was a dark and stormy night last night._

_Bitter dark rain fell in torrents,_

_stabbing its ghosts through the cold,_

_and straight through our hearts.”_

It _definitely_ didn’t sound spiritual. Your brother seemed to be gauging your reaction, but you must have been making a face at it, because he looked disappointed. He paused the music and took out his earbud.

“You… don’t like it, huh, Kris?” he said.

You shook your head. “It’s weird.”

Your brother chuckled. “I thought it was weird at first too. I used to only listen to classical and jazz music and stuff, and then I tried, uh, ‘religious ska’? That was _really_ weird, but Mom wouldn’t let me listen to anything else. Then I heard about this from Cyan… you know, from my class with Ms. Alphys?”

You nodded, even though you didn’t know them at all.

“Cyan says this is religious ska too, but it’s… different. I mean, two of the band’s members are…” He whispered the word conspiratorially. “ _Atheists.”_

“What’s an atheist?” you asked.

“Someone who doesn’t believe in the Angel, or the Angel’s Heaven, or, like, anything! Isn’t that _weird?”_

You blinked at him, like he was joking with you. Someone who didn’t believe in the Angel? Was that even possible? You didn’t know _anyone_ who didn’t believe in the Angel.

“Anyway,” your brother continued. “I guess what I’m trying to say is… I know it’s super weird, but, um, give it a shot? You might like it!”

You nodded. “OK.”

Smiling, he moved his mouse and unpaused the song. Immediately, the horns, guitars, and the lyrics started up again…

_“I’ve been waiting, in halfhearted sleep, For a promise I half meant to keep. Just for hoping that hope still flies, wipe the sleep out of our sleeping eyes.”_

And you found that, much to your surprise, you actually did kind of like it. It _was_ strange, very strange, but you found yourself tapping your foot to it, rhythmically waving your head back and forth to the beat.

“There we go, Kris!” your brother said when he saw you, well, dancing.

_“Fog that is lifting,_

_the spectre of dreams we once had,_

_speaks into the night…”_

“Now make the horns!” he said. You didn’t know what he meant until he stretched both paws upward, extending his little fingers and index fingers. You did the same with both your hands, not really sure what you were doing, but you also extended your thumbs.

Your brother laughed. “No, no, that’s… not it. I mean, I love you too, sib, but…”

He reached out and closed your thumbs over your middle and ring fingers. It seemed, to you, like you were making kind of obscene gesture your mother would ground you for a month for, but you played along anyway, raising both hands as high as you could.

“Wow, perfect!” your brother said. “You’re like a real rock star, Kris!”

You smiled at him, letting the lyrics wash over you.

_“Slumber is over, sunlight is streaming through, come into the light...”_

After a moment, your brother stopped with the ‘horns’ and instead switched back to his air guitar, playing along with the song. He started to sing with it too.

_“I know,_

_Hope has not forgotten me, I know, I’m waking from the longest dream...”_

You bobbed your head along with the music, smiling at him. You’d never seen your brother have this much _fun._ You kind of liked seeing this side of him.

“So what’d you think?” your brother asked eagerly, the moment the song came to a stop.

“That was… cool,” you said. “Is there more?”

In response, your brother grinned.

And that was why you didn’t get your math homework done that day.

* * *

You kept thinking of something your brother had said to you.

_What’s an atheist?_

_Someone who doesn’t believe in the Angel, or the Angel’s Heaven, or, like, anything!_

You still couldn’t make any sense of it. You’d spent your whole life believing in the promise of the eternal paradise of the Angel’s Heaven, in the power of the Angel, in the belief - the _truth_ \- that the Angel would one day “return” and the entire world would “go empty.”

Nobody was sure how, exactly, the world would “go empty.” Some believed that the Angel was a wrathful deity, who would wipe out all life when they returned, allowing only their truest and purest believers to join them in paradise. Others believed that the Angel was a forgiving deity, who would bless all those who were Reborn with the gift of the Angel’s Heaven. Yet others believed a combination of both. All those prospects frightened you - you who had not yet been Reborn, you who had dared to question the Angel’s will.

And now the whole thing seemed… unfair. Did doubters like these “atheists” deserve eternal damnation, to be destroyed utterly by the Angel’s wrath? Did even those who believed, like you, but who did not believe _enough,_ deserve to be rejected from the Angel’s Heaven? What happened to an “atheist” after they died? The Angel was beginning to seem more wrathful than forgiving to you.

You still believed in the Angel, of course, but you had… questions. And you weren’t sure who to turn to for answers.

So you turned to your father first.

You waited until your mother was out grocery shopping, and he was sitting on his chair drinking a cup of tea and reading a newspaper. As usual, you stood in front of him silently until he noticed you.

“Oh, Kris!” he’d said, putting down his newspaper. “Did you want a hug…?”

You shook your head.

“Ah, of course,” he said, although he looked disappointed. “You do not like hugs. Well, what can I do for you?”

You weren’t sure how to say what you wanted to ask at first, so you just stared at the floor. Patiently, your father took a sip of his tea.

“What happens to atheists when they die?” you asked at last, staring up at him. Your father’s eyes widened at the question, and he nearly choked on his tea.

“W-well!” he said, pounding one of his huge fists against his chest. “That’s… a very interesting theological question. Whatever brings this on…?”

“Asriel told me about atheists,” you said, and your father looked over at the door, as if he was afraid someone might suddenly come through it. “And the Angel only grants their gift to those who believe in them… those who are Reborn. So what happens to atheists when they die?”

“Those who are Reborn… I see,” said your father, nodding. “This isn’t really about, ah, atheists, is it? You are worried as to what will happen when _you_ die.”

You thought about that. You weren’t actually sure. It did frighten you, the idea of death without having been Reborn, but you… were also starting to have your own doubts, about the fairness, the justice, of it all. And, if it was as simple as being Reborn, why didn’t you simply let yourself be Reborn...? It was more than your fear of water. What was it that was stopping you?

“Well, Kris,” your father continued, “there are many faiths in this world, many beliefs as to what awaits us in the afterlife. Why, humans must have hundreds, thousands, of them. Ours is only one of many.”

“It is?” you said, interested. You’d read Gerson’s book about the history of humans and monsters many times over, but you’d never heard of that.

“Yes, it is. And it is my belief that the Angel grants us all, even those who believe differently, even those who do not believe, a path to salvation. Simply not believing does not mean that one who has otherwise lived a good, honest life is barred from the Angel’s Heaven.”

You nodded - that sounded reasonable. Your father reached over with his free hand and patted your shoulder, smiling. For once, you smiled back, without flinching away from his touch.

“So do not fret. We are a tolerant species, monsters. It is only right that we accept those who believe differently from us, and that we accept that all people are welcome in the Angel’s Heaven. Even if you have not been Reborn, there is a path for you as well.”

“Thank you, father,” you said.

“You’re very welcome, Kris.”

You went back to your room to play with your brother, feeling much better.

That night, after dinner, you helped your mother wash the dishes. You don’t remember what else you had talked about that night, but you do remember asking her something.

“Mother, does it frighten you that I haven’t been Reborn…?”

Your mother had stopped in the middle of washing a plate, staring at you. She seemed to collect herself, though, and smiled.

“Whyever do you ask, dear one?”

“I was talking with Father about it earlier,” you had explained. “He told me not to be scared. He said that all people are welcome in the Angel’s Heaven, even those who have not been Reborn. So, even if I die, the Angel will still accept me.”

The more you spoke, the more your mother’s expression darkened. You weren’t sure why. What had you said wrong?

“Is that so?” she said, without looking at you. Her voice was without its usual cheerfulness. “I suppose that I will have to have a talk with your father.”

Then she smiled again, handing you a glass.

“Would you be a dear and clean this for me?”

“Yes, mother.”

* * *

Your brother didn’t check out books from the Librarby as often as you did, but sometimes, he came back with a good one. This time, he’d come back with a copy of “How To Draw Dragons: 201X Edition.” He’d checked it out for _himself,_ of course, but you’d immediately insisted on “borrowing” it.

You, however... couldn’t really draw. Your brother was excellent at art - like he was at everything else - but, no matter how hard you tried, your circles looked like rhombuses and your coloring was several inches outside the lines.

“Hey, Kris,” your brother said as he watched you crumple up another sheet of paper and sulk. “Want me to help you?”

You’d nodded, and he’d taken you out to the dining room table with some paper to teach you properly.

“OK, um, so let’s check the instructions…” he said. “Alright, it says: first, you draw some circles. That seems reasonable.”

You nodded.

“...Then you draw the rest of the dragon. Wow. This book sucks. Here, I’ll teach you properly.”

He took out a sheet of paper and a pencil, then handed another to you.

“First, I guess we’ll, uh, draw two circles…” he said, drawing two circles. Alongside him, you drew two circles on your own paper. “Then another circle for the head, up here.”

You followed along with his instructions, sticking your tongue out as you tried to focus.

“...Then you draw, like, an S, and then another S…”

“Draw some limbs here…”

“And a big curvy tail…”

“And some, like, smoke and fire! And maybe some wings…”

“Now we color it in…”

“And we’re done!”

You looked at your handiwork. It was a pretty good dragon, all things considered. Very fearsome and deadly-looking. You wished _you_ could be a cool dragon, burning down all you saw.

“Wow, Kris,” said your brother, grinning at you. “Nice job!”

You beamed at him. You decided to hang the picture up in your room, next to your bed, where a few dozen other dragon pictures would eventually be hung up next to it.

Even though the book hadn’t been very helpful, you still ended up using the finished drawings in it for reference. You never ended up giving it back to him.

* * *

Your brother had been practicing to join the choir for, literally, as long as you could remember. Even when you were a baby and he was only six or seven, you could already hear the training, the practice, that had he put into mastering his singing voice. You loved the sound of his singing - when you were younger, you had even fallen asleep to it, with him singing you back to sleep whenever you had nightmares. You probably _still_ could fall asleep to it.

It was inevitable that, as soon as he was ten years old, he’d join the church choir. And it was just as inevitable that, when you turned ten, he’d ask _you_ to join the church choir.

You’d immediately said “no.” Or, well, you hadn’t said it, you’d shaken your head vigorously, but that was basically the same thing.

“Aw, come on, Kris!” he’d said, in his whiniest voice, as he laid his head on the dining room table. “It’d be so cool to have my little sib there with me! We could practice together after school, and Mom would be so proud of us...”

You considered this. You _did_ like making your mother proud.

“Why don’t you just give it a shot? You never know, you might like it!”

You glared at him. Ever since he’d convinced you to listen to that one ska song, he liked to say “Why don’t you just give it a shot?” whenever he wanted to convince you to do something. It’d become so common that your parents had taken to doing it too.

He took one look at your glare and laughed. “Sorry! I couldn’t help it. But, seriously… can you please give it a chance? Just once? For your big brother?”

He was clearly desperate, you thought. You let out a melodramatic sigh.

“Fine.”

The following day, you went to choir practice at the church, alongside your brother and your parents. Unsurprisingly, Noelle and Monster Kid were there too, along with their family members and just about everyone else from your class… and many more monsters you didn’t recognize.

“Oh, Kris!” said Noelle, brushing a strand of hair out of her eye. You still didn’t know her very well, but you were glad that she didn’t hold that embarrassing incident at church five years ago against you. “I didn’t know you’d be joining choir too…”

“Hey, Kris! Good to see you!” said Rudy jovially, grinning. His wife, Mayor December, didn’t say anything to you, but she smiled. “You aren’t giving my daughter a hard time again, are you?”

“Yo, Kris!” shouted Monster Kid, nearly barreling into you before running a circle around you. Their voice lowered to a whisper - or as close to a whisper as Monster Kid could manage. “I’m so happy you’re here! Choir sucks, man! My dad makes me do it, haha… but it’s going to be _way_ cooler having you around!”

You smiled politely at all of them, even though you still didn’t really want to be there, but didn’t say anything else. Your brother, thankfully, wasn’t saying anything about how quiet you were being to everyone - everyone who knew you understood that you didn’t want to talk sometimes.

Or, at least, you had _thought_ they understood. That you didn’t like speaking was why you were not really looking forward to the idea of _singing._ Why had your brother thought this would be a good idea...?

There was no escaping now, though. And there was _definitely_ no escaping once the choir teacher, Sister Theodora, arrived. She was a portly, snake-esque monster in a nun’s habit, who, like Alvin, had a pair of wings, and who, like Alvin, always seemed to be smiling.

“Welcome to choir practiccccccce, everyone,” she said, her tongue flicking out at the word ‘practice.’ “Please welcome our newest member, Krissssss Dreemurr.”

“Hi, Kris!” said everyone at once. You smiled awkwardly.

“Now, as ussssssual, if you would all put on your robessssss…”

Sister Theodora took a set of robes out of a pile and handed one each to all of the choir members, including you. You looked at them disdainfully. You didn’t like wearing robes. And these weren’t just robes - they had a cheap-looking halo and a set of golden cloth wings attached.

“Er,” said your brother, looking at you. “Does Kris have to take their horns off?”

You looked up at Sister Theodora, alarmed. You looked towards your parents - they both looked equally as alarmed as you. Nobody _ever_ asked you to take your horns off, not for anything, not even at school. Not since a teacher had tried to forcefully take them off you and you’d bit their arm.

“I ssssssuppose not,” said Sister Theodora, clearly confused.

Grateful, you threw the robe on over your clothes. It was warm and stuffy and you already hated it, but at least you could wear your horns.

“Now,” said Sister Theodora, “sssssssince we have a new ssssstudent, we will sssstart with vocal warm-upssss. Noelle, _do re mi_ , if you’d please?”

“Yes, ma’am!” said Noelle, stepping forward.

Sister Theodora waved her hands back and forth. “One… two… three…”

“ _Do re mi fa sol la ti do~”_ sang Noelle. Her voice, her pitch, was perfect, you thought, even though she was the same age as you. She must have been practicing a long time, like your brother.

“Wonderful! Now, Kid, if you would…?”

“Uhhhh… OK,” said Monster Kid, stepping forward.

“One… two… three…”

“ _Do re mi fa… la… do… ti?”_

You couldn’t help but cringe. Monster Kid’s voice was a little screechy, and they’d forgotten the lyrics… you supposed you could sympathize though, remembering how long it’d taken you to learn to play piano.

“No worriessssss, you will get it with practicccccce. Now, Temmie?”

“hoi!”

Temmie went (her voice was surprisingly good), then the rest of the students, and then finally, Sister Theodora turned to you.

“Krisssss, would you like to try?”

You shrugged. That was what you were here for, after all.

“One… two… three…”

“ _Do re mi fa sol la ti do~”_ you sang. You winced at the sound of your own voice, but everyone clapped, including Sister Theodora.

“Very good, Krissss! Essssspecially for a first-timer.”

You smiled shyly. You still didn’t really want to be doing this, but… it wasn’t as bad as you had been expecting. Your brother had been right - perhaps you’d start to enjoy this after all.

“Did you hear that, Gori, dear?” you overheard your mother saying excitably. “Listen to Kris! Our child is starting to come out of their shell…”

And your smile faded.

 _No_ , you thought. _No, this was wrong._ You didn’t _want_ to… to “come out of your shell.” You were doing this because Asriel had wanted you to, not because… not because, just as you’d always feared, your parents were _ashamed of you?_ That they saw you as _defective,_ just because you didn’t speak to people, because you didn’t make friends the way your brother did?

You found that you’d started crying, tears rolling down your cheeks, and that just made you angrier. People were staring at you, and that just made you _angrier still._ You grabbed the hem of the robes and pulled them off yourself, throwing them to the ground, and then pushed past Sister Theodora to walk home.

“Oh, Kris, I did not mean to…! I am so sorry!” you heard your mother say, a chair squeaking as she stood up, but it was too late. You were already leaving… and you were never, ever coming back.

* * *

The day after, you remember your father bought you a big red wagon. He had said it was to cheer you up after you’d spent the entire rest of the previous day laying in bed - he told you about how he’d spent his childhood playing with a red wagon of his own. You didn’t have very many possessions, besides the drawings you made and hung up on your wall, your books, your video games. You often just made use of Asriel’s things, his hand-me-downs, so you appreciated the gesture.

That day, after you went out to a picnic by the lake with the Holidays and spent the entire time trying to stick your fingers through the table gratings instead of eating lunch or playing catch, you went to a nearby hill with your brother to try it out.

“This will be _awesome!”_ your brother said, as he climbed into the wagon and patted the space in front of him. “You’ll see!”

You thought it sounded incredibly dangerous... but that just made it sound like fun.

“Yeah,” you agreed, climbing into the wagon with your brother. You squeezed your knees tight to your chest, but Asriel was still pretty big, so it was a tight fit to get into the wagon. But you managed.

Using his paws, your brother pushed it to the edge of the hill and you looked down, down, down at the very steep drop. It went so far that the hell felt like an island, hovering over a giant green sea.

“You ready, Kris?” your brother asked.

You nodded. “I’m ready.”

He gave the wagon a push, and then you were slowly careening down the hill. In seconds, trees, leaves, and grass were rushing past you. You grabbed the sides of the wagon, screaming as it picked up more and more speed, bouncing dangerously up and down as it made its violent journey - behind you, Asriel screamed even louder, which just made you laugh uproariously.

The end of the hill was fast approaching, and you realized you didn’t know how to make the wagon _stop._ You turned to your brother to ask him, because your brother was an expert on everything, and…

It didn’t happen in slow-motion, like a car accident in a movie. It was more abrupt than that. The wagon simply skipped, and then you weren’t on the ground anymore. It was twisting, turning onto its side, and then you were tumbling, falling, the wagon bouncing over your head…

And then you were on the ground again, and so was your brother, and the wagon was upside-down. Your vision swam. Everything hurt.

It was painful, but you managed to pull your head up and look down at yourself. That was when you saw it - the tear in your slacks, right at the knees, and… something dark red pooling around your right leg. Something… something white, jutting out of your dark skin.

 _What on Earth is that?_ you thought, deliriously.

And then you fainted.

* * *

When you woke up, you couldn’t tell where you were, or how long it’d been since you lost consciousness. Everything was a blur - both your memories and your vision.

Your leg hurt. The more you tried to focus, the more pain shot through it.

You let out a groan, and some kind of white blob rushed over to your side, taking your hands in theirs. It took you a moment to recognize it as your brother, and you could only tell because the white blob was wearing his pair of green glasses.

“Kris,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Kris, are you OK? Does it hurt?”

“Yes,” you said. You tried to focus on him, to make the image of him clearer, but it was… difficult. “It does.”

“Oh,” he replied, and you felt him squeezing your hand. He sounded miserable, but you didn’t know why. You’d only answered honestly. “I’m… I’m so sorry, Kris. This was all my fault.”

What was his fault…? Oh, right. The wagon. You remember the image of it flying over your head. But… it wasn’t his fault, you thought. You were the one who had agreed to ride it down the hill, in spite of thinking it was dangerous. You tried to say so, opening your mouth to speak…

“And don’t say it wasn’t my fault, OK, Kris?” he said first. “Mom is already blaming Dad. She says… she says it’s all because he gave you the wagon in the first place. I’ve never seen her this mad at him before. But if I… if I hadn’t… I’m so _stupid,_ Kris.”

You squeezed his paw back.

“Are _you_ OK?” you asked.

He nodded, or at least his head moved a little. It was getting easier to focus, but you still couldn’t really tell. “I’m… I’m fine. I wasn’t injured that badly - just some scrapes. But you… you’re the one who broke your leg.”

 _Broke?_ you thought. _Aren’t I made out of dust? How can I break my leg?_

“There was blood everywhere,” your brother said. He sounded like he was… crying, but you also heard a mirthless chuckle. “You’d probably… you’d probably have liked it. It was super gross.”

 _Blood,_ you thought. You’d once given yourself a paper cut, and another time, you’d accidentally stepped on a pin that had been left on the floor. Both times, you’d seen something red flow out of your body. You’d been fascinated by it, but you hadn’t been able to make any sense out of it. If you were a monster, why were you losing blood? Shouldn’t you have just lost dust?

“Anyway, um,” your brother said. “Mom’s going to be really happy to see you awake. I’ll go get her, OK?”

Your eyes adjusted enough to see the white blob shape stand up, and then walk away. As you waited for your brother to return, your eyes slowly began to adjust fully. You realized where you were - unsurprisingly, you were in the hospital, and not at home. There were flowers by your bedside, probably from your father’s store, “Get Well Soon” cards from the Holidays and Monster Kid, your headband with the red horns on it, and X-rays showing… bones? But only humans had those, didn’t they?

After what felt like long enough that you were left wondering if your brother was ever actually going to come back, you saw your mother and brother walking back into the room.

“Kris, my dear child,” said your mother. She lifted your hand in her paws and kissed the back of it. “I am so grateful you are safe. I must admit, when I heard of the accident, I feared the worst.”

“Where is Father?” you said immediately. She flinched - her grip on your hand tightened. Your brother frowned.

“Um…” your brother started to say, but your mother interrupted.

“I have forbidden him from seeing you,” she said. You pulled your hand away from hers as if she’d struck you. You felt tears pricking at your eyes. Your brother was right - you’d _never_ seen your mother this angry at your father, not even when you’d climbed that tree. “Kris, surely you are as angry at him as I am? It is his fault all this has occurred. It is his fault that... that we almost lost you.”

“Lost me…?” you said softly.

Your mother looked away from you. She looked vaguely sick, raising her paw to her mouth. “...Yes. I hate to say this, but you.. you could have _died_ , Kris. Your father was dangerously irresponsible. He was not watching you and, on top of that, he was the one who purchased that awful toy. If you had… if we had lost you, I don’t… I don’t know what I would have done.”

“Mother…” you whispered.

“Mom,” your brother said, reaching out for your mother’s shoulder. “Please, please don’t be angry at Dad. It was all my idea…”

“Enough,” your mother said firmly. “I have made my decision. Your father must face the consequences of his actions.”

Your brother nodded glumly. “OK, Mom.”

You knew better than to argue with your mother. Once she’d made a decision, it was final.

“When your leg heals, then your father can visit you,” your mother said to you, more gently. “I promise. Until then, your brother and I shall remain at your side.”

You nodded. You wanted to see your father, but… at least you wouldn’t be alone, in this hospital bed.

“OK,” you said, laying down on your pillow and closing your eyes. “Thank you, mother.”

* * *

The doctors soon prepped you for something called “surgery.” It was nothing less than terrifying. The doctors tried to be calm and professional, but you didn’t care - when they told you they were going to put you under a breathing mask and “put you to sleep”, you screamed and cried and tried desperately to get out of the bed. It was as if they told you that you were going to be killed, but it was more than that - it was the terror of not knowing, of someone being in control of your fate while you were unconscious.

Eventually, they had no choice. A big, strong monster was brought in and they held you down while the doctors put the breathing mask on you. You couldn’t have fought back even if you wanted to.

You didn’t remember anything else. You only knew that, the next time you woke up, a cast had been placed on your leg and there was a strange sensation underneath it. It was only later you’d learned that they’d installed metal plates into your leg to hold the bone in place.

It would be about a week after that before you were allowed out of the hospital, according to the doctors, and you didn’t see your father once. Your mother took off time and hired a substitute teacher so she could visit you, and your brother would often feign illnesses to skip classes and then sneak out to see you in your hospital bed. Your brother was supposed to bring you all the homework you were missing, but you never once saw it - when you asked him about it, he told you he’d done it all for you.

You had a wonderful, loving family. But it just made you miss your father more. You knew your father would never have intended you to get hurt… you knew that it must have been agonizing to him that he’d caused, however indirectly, you to be hospitalized.

That wasn’t the only reason you missed him. You were also just… lonely. No matter how much your brother and your mother tried to visit you, there were many hours where it was just you, alone, in your hospital bed. There were many hours where you weren’t even visited by a nurse, and all you could do was read the Librarby books that your brother checked out for you or watch a boring children’s television show about religious talking vegetables. It was torture.

Sometimes, other people from your class or Sunday School came to visit you and signed your cast. Catty visited with her sister Catti and signed “AUNT CATTY <3” on it, even though she wasn’t your aunt. Monster Kid talked your ear off for hours about the latest comic books they were reading, before signing your cast “M.K.” Noelle and her family came to visit, which you supposed was more because your family was close to the Holidays than because you were particularly close to Noelle - Noelle signed your cast “Praying for a miracle! - Noelle” while Rudy signed “Get well soon, bud! - Rudy”

But the visitor you were looking forward to most of all was Gerson. If there was anyone, besides your parents and your brother, who you could tell cared about you, it was Gerson. Gerson, who always told you stories about human and monster history. Gerson, who’d taught you piano. Gerson, who’d supported you no matter what.

But Gerson… didn’t come. At least, not at first. You wondered why - he must have heard about your injury, right?

Instead of visiting your hospital bed, he sent three things to your hospital room. The first was a carton of fruit juice - apple-flavored. You guessed your love of fruit juice must have become famous among the town, or at least the church. The second was a tiny clay figure of a piano.

And the third… was a card. You opened it and it said:

_Heya, kiddo!_

_Heard about your little accident. Now, your old pal Gerson has had some scrapes in his day, but that sounds like a nasty one! Don’t go hurting yourself again, y’hear?_

_The whole town’s worried their heads off for you. Can’t stop talking about how “little Kris” is in the hospital! You remember that, OK? This whole town cares for you so much, you can almost feel their hearts beating as one! Or, well, whatever. We don’t have hearts, we have souls, which are only kinda like hearts. Ain’t it funny that we all still say things like “heart attack” and “cross my heart” and “their hearts beating as one” and all that jazz though?_

_Anyway, I’m rambling. Just wanted to say I care for you too. I’m sorry I couldn’t visit - these old ~~bones~~ limbs just ain’t what they used to be. But, cross my not-heart, I’ll visit you as soon as I can! Hope my little piano makes up for it - I spent hours on that thing!_

_Don’t give up hope now! I know you can make it through this! Or my name’s not Gerson! Wa ha ha!_

_May the Angel bless you,_

_Gerson_

And there was a little drawing of Gerson next to his name. You hugged the card tight to your chest, feeling tears roll down your cheeks - you missed him so much.

* * *

A few days after your surgery, and every day after that, you’d be wheeled to a separate room from your hospital bed. That was where you’d be given something the doctors called “physical therapy.” It was to help you get better, to help you be able to walk like normal again, to “get your bones and muscles back in proper shape” (you didn’t know you _had_ bones and muscles).

You knew that, and you still hated it. It was… uncomfortable. Your legs still felt like jelly and you struggled to even stand, much less to balance yourself for learning to walk on crutches. Every movement _hurt -_ stretching your leg out while the doctor assisted you hurt even worse. And you were being touched a lot. You _hated_ being touched, and the feeling of the doctor’s slimy, sticky tentacles on your arm or back made you squirm.

One day, you got too tired of it all and requested to stop, and the doctor helped you to sit in a chair and gave you some water. You drank it, grateful to the doctor even though there was some part of you that was kind of angry at her for being an octopus monster and not having actual hands or paws. You felt bad about being angry. It wasn’t her fault.

Your thoughts, and drinking, were interrupted when somebody knocked on the door.

“Yes?” said the doctor in her cheerful, bubbly voice.

“Just a visitor,” said a very, very familiar voice on the other side of the door.

You almost stood up, but winced in pain when you tried to move. That would be a very bad idea.

Instead, you shouted, “Mr. Boom!”

“Just Gerson’s fine, kiddo!” said Gerson. “Wa ha ha!”

“Oh, Brother Boom! Please, please come in,” said the doctor, and the door swung open, revealing Gerson with a huge grin on his face. He crossed the room, hobbling on his cane, and sat down in a chair next to yours.

“Howdy, sport,” he said. You took a closer look at him - he was smiling, but he looked strangely tired, more than he usually did. His cane was rattling in his hands. “Hope you liked my little card.”

You smiled. “I loved it.”

“So, how are things? You should be out soon, right?”

“Yeah,” you nod. The doctor said you’d only have to stay for another day or two, then they’d put you on crutches and teach you how to walk with them. “I’m fine, Mr. Boom… but… my mother’s really angry.”

“At your old man, right?” he says, putting his hand on his beard. “That don’t really make much sense. All you did was play on a toy wagon, right?”

You nodded.

“Well, heck, I played with toy wagons all the time when I was a boy. Nobody cared a lick. Ain’t your fault the damn thing toppled over.”

“Yeah,” you agreed, even though you hated to contradict your mother. “You’re right.”

Still, you thought about your mother. Even if she was angry, she should have forgiven your father by now. You hoped she would soon. You didn’t want them to stay mad at each other.

You wanted to say that to Gerson. That you were afraid that, if this kept up, your parents would do something horrible to each other. But you couldn’t find the right words. You didn’t even know what the “something horrible” might be, or if they hadn’t done it already.

“You don’t like your parents being mad at each other, huh?” Gerson continued, as if reading your thoughts. “I get it. But it’ll pass, kiddo. Promise. Why, you should have seen the rows my Mom and Pop used to get into. Could’ve blown the roof off our heads!”

“And they fixed it?”

Gerson blinked. “Eh?”

“Your parents. They fixed it?”

“Oh, er,” said Gerson, scratching his head. “No. They got divorced.”

“What’s ‘divorced’?”

“Eh, ask your parents,” Gerson replied. “Or don’t! Wa ha ha!”

You didn’t understand what was funny. Whatever being ‘divorced’ was, it sounded serious. You hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

“Anyway, Alvin… I mean, Father Alvin… well, he needs me to practice for the marriage next week,” Gerson said, “so I just came to say hello and sign your cast and all that. You got a marker?”

“I have one, Brother Boom,” said the doctor, wetly sliding towards him.

She handed him a marker, and he got up from his chair, hobbled over to your cast, and (sticking his tongue out to concentrate) drew a crude little drawing of himself, grinning toothlessly. “Get well soon, kiddo!” it said.

“You be safe now,” he reminder you, once he’d finished signing the cast. “Don’t get into any more accidents.”

“I won’t, Mr. Boom.”

“Kiddo! Gerson is fine!”

“Sorry. I won’t, Mr. Gerson.”

“...Ah, well, close enough.”

And, with that, he left. But, over the next two days, he made sure to visit again.

* * *

The next day, when your mother visited you in the hospital, you asked her something that had been worrying you.

“Mother, are you and father going to get… ‘divorced’?”

Your mother’s eyebrows raised.

“What?” She smiled gently, petting your hair. “No, of course we are not going to divorce. Whatever gave you that idea?”

“Mr. Gerson said his parents fought a lot,” you explained, “and they got divorced.”

“Well, we are not Mr. Gerson’s parents, are we? Do not fret, dear one. No matter how much we may fight, I truly do love your father. It will take more than this to split your father and I apart.”

You nodded, feeling better.

“Thank you, mother.”

“You are very welcome, dear. Get some rest.”

* * *

When you were finally released from the hospital, you couldn’t wait to see your father. When you arrived home in your mother’s van, you rushed over to him as fast as your crutches could carry you, collapsing against his leg as you pulled him into the best hug you could manage. Your crutches clattered to the floor.

“Father!” you’d cried out. “Father, I missed you so much!”

He’d been very, very surprised. He’d laughed and pulled you into a tight but gentle hug. “Oh, Kris! I never thought _you_ would be the one to hug _me!”_

“Are you and mother still…?” you asked him, before your mother could get in the door.

“Do not worry about your mother and I,” he said, picking you up and placing you in the crook of his arm. “We will work things out. We always do. At any rate, Kris, I bought you another gift. One much less dangerous this time. Unless you get another paper cut, haha!”

You smiled up at him, even though the joke wasn’t that funny. “What is it, father?”

“It is a book. I know how much you enjoy reading, and for some reason, I thought this one would interest you…”

You wondered what it was. Was it a gardening encyclopedia? A human history book? A _monster_ history book? You’d read all of those, but...

Instead, he fished out of his giant pockets a small book, featuring a human woman on the front cover standing in front of an overturned red bowl. On the front of the book, in huge letters, was the word “Kitchen,” and underneath that was the words “Banana Yoshimoto.”

“I know you like reading books above your grade level, so this seemed perfect for you,” he said. “And you are always spending time helping your mother in the kitchen, so…”

You felt tears prick at your eyes. This _was_ perfect. You hugged your father again.

“Thank you so much, father! I’ll take good care of it,” you said.

“You are quite welcome, Kris,” he said, tousling your hair, putting you down, and handing you your crutches. You hobbled off to your bedroom, your father holding your book for you.

 _Your_ book. One of the few possessions you had… you’d treasure it forever.

* * *

You finished _Kitchen_ in only a few days - it was a short book - but you read it over and over again, savoring every word. You loved it - its style, its plot, its characters, the tragedy and the romance of it all. You weren’t sure if you’d ever grow bored of it.

One day, though, as you were reading it, your mother received a phone call.

“Dreemurr residence? This is Toriel,” you overheard her say. You tried to tune it out and focus on your book. “My goodness, slow down! What? Gerson…?”

You stopped reading, suddenly paying attention. Whoever was calling, if they were calling about Gerson, that was strange… you had a bad feeling.

“Thank you for telling me,” your mother continued. “Yes. Yes, he is now. I wish you the best.”

Then she went to your door, knocking on it.

“Come in, mother,” you said, still dreading the worst.

She opened the door. You could see the frown on her face, and she was wringing her paws - you could tell whatever she had to say, it couldn’t be good. Your soul pounded in your chest.

“What is it?” you said.

“Mr. Boom… that is to say, Gerson… he has had another heart attack.”

Your soul pounded harder, your eyes widening.

You try to think of what your mother had said over the phone. The way the person on the other end had been panicked. The way your mother had said “he is now,” - he was _what_ now? The way she had come into the room looking like she didn’t want to tell you something.

“Is… is he…” you said, dreading the answer you already knew.

“He’s…” your mother said, and the way she said it, that confirmed it.

“He’s dead,” you said quietly.

Your mother only silently nodded.

And you… you started to laugh. Your mother looked up at you, clearly confused, and you laughed harder, throwing your head back against your pillow and covering your eyes with your hands.

 _Of course,_ you thought. _Gerson, one of the only people who cared about me in this world, was dead… and I wasn’t even given a chance to really say goodbye. Of course._

You kept laughing, and laughing, and laughing. Your mother walked over to you, to comfort you, but you didn’t care. You didn’t care about anything anymore.

You threw your book across the room, watching as it flew past your mother’s head and slammed into your brother’s wall. You didn’t know how long you kept laughing for, until eventually, you had laughed for so long and so hard that you couldn’t laugh anymore, and you just cried into your mother’s chest instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [Light](https://archiveofourown.org/users/light_rises/pseuds/light_rises) for betaing this fic for me, and especially for helping me with the medical details and the song lyrics! Thank you to Ivy and [Willow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AMX004_Qubeley/pseuds/AMX004_Qubeley) as well!


	3. Some Revelation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As your family grows further and further apart, you become like a child possessed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _On the nights when the dark lasts a little bit longer  
>  When the wind and the storm is a little bit stronger  
> When the fear in my heart digs a little bit deeper  
> When my faith to stand gets a little bit weaker_
> 
> _Where could I run to?  
>  Where could I go?_
> 
> \- Even Then, Micah Taylor
> 
> Content warnings in this chapter for: references to death, family strife, divorce, and violent possession/body horror.

Gerson’s funeral was held the next week, at the church where he’d spent most of his life. His closest friend - Officer Undyne, who’d been the one to discover his dust - was the pallbearer. Even if you had stayed home, like you wanted to, it would have been impossible to miss the hearse, the procession, carrying his urn through Hometown.

You went to church for the funeral - without your headband, of course. Your family insisted that you go, saying it was right and proper to honor the dead. Some part of you had wondered if it even mattered, because would Gerson even care now? After all, what just world, what part of it that really was being watched over by an Angel, would take Gerson away from you?

“This is a tragic day for all Monsterkind,” Father Alvin announced to the church, jarring you out of your thoughts. He was standing in front of a portrait of Gerson and, next to that, the urn containing his dust. “Gerson Boom was more than a loyal, lifelong brother of our church, a true worshipper of the Angel… he was a scholar, a teacher, a hero, and most of all… a friend.

“But we do not sit here in this church today just to mourn this loss, as great as it may be. We also seek to celebrate his great, long life, and the many ways in which his journey has touched all of our souls.

“I will start with a story of my own. When I was a young boy, Brother Gerson - I knew him as just ‘Mr. Gerson’ then - was my favorite teacher. He had a mighty, giving soul, and his door was always open. Whenever I found myself struggling, he would…”

Slowly, you began to tune out Father Alvin’s words, the laughter and “amen”s from the crowd. Soon enough, though, more and more people got out of their seats and walked up to tell their own stories of how Gerson touched their lives.

“He was the best sibling you could ask for, and I had twelve!”

“Gerson was a colleague of mine, back in the ‘70s. You could tell how much he loved his job! It inspired all of us.”

“Gerson inspired… Gerson inspired me to join the force, and, and I don’t know where I’d be without him today, and if I… if I have to keep talking, I’m going to FREAKING CRY…”

“Mr. Boom always told the best stories and… and I’m really gonna miss him!”

“He inspired me to learn piano! And now, I have my very own Holly Day album!”

Eventually, your father, wearing a black suit much like your own, went up to the pulpit.

“We all knew Gerson well,” he said. “He had a tremendous soul - I do not think there is one person in all of Hometown his life did not touch.”

A chorus of “amen”s rolled through the crowd.

“I could tell many stories about Gerson. Why, I’m sure we could be here for the next thousand years talking about all he has done.”

Laughter, and a few more “amen”s.

“But… there is one life in particular that he touched that I want to make note of.”

You looked up at him. He motioned towards you.

“That of my youngest child, Kris.”

You instantly felt the eyes of the entire church on you and plastered a fake smile on your face. Your body stiffened as you tried not to shrink back into your seat.

“Kris was an anxious, shy child -” Your fake smile somehow got even faker. “- but under Gerson’s guiding hand, they were able to learn how to play the piano. They were even able to play it in front of a crowd! It was truly an incredible experience.”

You heard murmurs of agreement from the pews, but all you could think was: _don’t panic._

“But, as a father, what truly made me happy… was seeing Kris, my child, happy. And I never saw Kris happier than when they returned from piano lessons with Gerson. Their joy was written all over their face.”

_Don’t panic, don’t panic._

“That is what I think of when I think of Gerson. Someone who took time out of his day to help a child in need, to bring joy to a young heart.”

Another chorus of “amen”s rolled through the pews. With that, your father stepped off the stage and returned to his seat. You let out a sigh of relief as the monsters stopped staring at you.

“I’m sorry for putting you on the spot like that, Kris,” your father said as he sat next to you. “I just… I thought it was a lovely story.”

“It’s fine, father,” you said, even though it really wasn’t. But your father must have believed you, because he smiled.

“...And a park bench will be built and dedicated to Gerson Boom immediately,” you heard Mayor December saying from the stage, drawing applause from the crowd. She walked away and Father Alvin returned.

“Now,” he said, “in accordance with his last will and testament, as well as proper tradition, Brother Gerson Boom’s dust will be spread over his favorite thing - the church piano he often played on - so that his essence may live on within it.”

You watched as Father Alvin took Gerson’s urn and opened it. Then, carefully, he overturned it and poured Gerson’s dust over the keys of the piano, the same piano you had played on years ago.

You looked away from it, up towards the church ceiling. You hadn’t cried all day, but now, somehow, it struck you that Gerson was well and truly _gone_. You couldn’t keep your eyes from watering.

With shaking hands, you blew a silent kiss up towards the ceiling.

It was a little silly, you knew.

But you hoped that, if the Angel’s Heaven truly was real, he would feel it.

* * *

You felt Gerson’s death like a chasm had opened in your life - he wasn’t at the Librarby telling stories to the children, he didn’t visit you, and his house was now empty. You knew that someday, new tenants would arrive and replace him, just like a new piano player had already replaced him for Sunday services.

But life went on, as it always does. Soon enough, things returned to normal.

...Or, at least, relatively normal.

You had somehow ended up in a party being held by Bratty, Catty’s next-door neighbor. Even though your mother would have said you were far too young to be going to any parties, your brother had invited you, and you’d gratefully accepted. After all, you were far too mature for the little kids’ parties that your mother or the Holidays threw. You liked the feeling of being accepted by the older kids.

Bratty had laughed when she’d seen you, by your brother’s side and wearing your best suit, saying, “Oh, man, you brought your little sibling with you?” But then she’d said, “Nah, that’s totally cool. Wish I had a little sib!” before ruffling your hair and letting you both inside.

You didn’t end up participating in very much of the party activities - you just drank the provided fruit punch, which wasn’t as good as the fruit juice at church, and gorged yourself on desserts. It turned out you were too shy to participate in most of them anyways, like dancing or karaoke, and it didn’t really seem fair for you to play party games like Twister when you were so much smaller than everyone else. You did thrash everyone at the game of Super Smash Fighters: Clash that your brother had taken with him - the blue-haired swordfighter was higher tier than your brother’s green dinosaur, after all, and nobody else knew how to play.

Eventually, a decision was made to play Truth or Dare, and you were decidedly left out of that game, even if you had wanted to play it. Which you didn’t like, just because you felt you _were_ mature enough to play, but you supposed did make sense - it’d just be awkward for everybody.

You learned a lot about your brother that day, because he kept picking “truth.” For instance, you learned he had a crush on Cyan, his friend since elementary school - and, since Cyan was also at the party, Cyan had spent the entire rest of it drinking fruit punch and trying not to blush. You also would have learned his most embarrassing secret, but before he told anyone, he ran over to you and covered your ears with his paws.

“So, like... truth or dare, Azzy?” said Bratty, sticking her tongue out and batting her eyelashes at him. “And you’ve been picking truth all game, so. Just saying.”

“Uh…” said your brother, pulling on his shirt collar. “Dare?”

Bratty grinned, all sharp fangs. “In that case, I dare you… to give me your first kiss.”

Almost the entire crowd of teenagers _ooh_ ed. Your brother blinked several times, his whole face turning crimson. Even you stared back and forth between him and Bratty.

“I don’t… uh…” said your brother, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I don’t like this…”

“Oh, come on, it’s, like, just a kiss,” said Bratty, crossing her arms. “Besides, it’s in the rules. You, like, have to do it.”

The crowd of teenagers began to chant. “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”

As the chanting increased in volume, your brother shut his eyes. “Fine!”

Then, before Bratty could react, he awkwardly lurched forward, closing the distance between them, and kissed her right on the snout, holding the sides of her jaws in his paws.

It lasted only a second before your brother pulled away from the kiss, but everyone reacted. Cyan groaned, walking out of the room. Catty laughed her head off. The strange cat guy who worked at Ice-E’s Pezza, who was standing next to you, spit out his fruit punch all over the floor. You just stared in utter horror. If your mother found out, she would _explode._

“Oh my god,” said Bratty. “That was, like, awful.”

“I know! I’m sorry!” said your brother, burying his face in his paws. “Please don’t tell my Mom…”

Bratty laughed. “What are you, five? Fine. I won’t tell your mom. Or, like, anyone else.”

It turned out, though, that once the party was over, it wasn’t Bratty that your brother had needed to worry about. It was the strange cat guy who worked part-time at the “Pezza” place, who’d loudly been talking about the party - and the kiss - out loud in front of customers and how “his chances with that hot gator girl are over.” Your mother had been in earshot, and she’d descended on your house like an angry god.

“You did what?!” she demanded, pacing back and forth in the dining room.

“Mom, please stop…” your brother whined, pulling his ears over his face. “I’m sixteen. It’s OK for me to kiss…”

Your mother took in a sharp breath, and your brother trailed off.

“Asriel,” she said eventually, sighing as she took a seat at the table in front of you.

Your brother peeked out from behind his ears. “Yes, Mom?”

“Perhaps you are right.” Your brother looked up at her, surprised. “Perhaps I am being unfair. It is just… I remember when I was young, and thought I knew better than my elders. Why, I could tell you so many stories about when I acted out… so maybe it is hypocritical of me to hold this against you. But you are yet young…”

Your brother made a face. You could tell what he was thinking.

“And do not tell me you are sixteen,” your mother said. “That _is_ young, and an age where young people do foolish things, as I once did. Things that go against the will of the Angel. Kissing others before marriage… that is not the Angel’s way. You know this.”

Your brother set his paws on the table and nodded, although you were sure he didn’t quite believe what he was hearing.

Your mother reached out and took his paws in her own. “You must understand, as well, that your younger sibling was there. You may… you may be getting older, it is true. As much as I do not wish to admit it. But your sibling… you must understand that your sibling still has much to learn of the world. Please, I only ask that you do not lead them down this path.”

You blanched, looking pitiably at your brother. You hadn’t wanted to be a part of this conversation, but on the rare occasions when your brother screwed up, you were often dragged into it for this exact reason - that he needed to be an “example” for you, that he must not commit “sin” for your sake. You wondered if that was why he tried so hard to please your mother.

It all seemed silly to you. You knew Monster Kid did things like listen to death metal against their parent’s wishes, and you knew Bratty and Catty were always getting into trouble and acting inappropriately despite _their_ parent’s wishes. But they hadn’t been struck down by the Angel’s furious rage so far, and it didn’t seem fair that they would be eternally damned for things they did when they weren’t even old enough to drive.

“So…” your brother said. “Am I grounded…?”

“Yes,” your mother said, in a tone that brooked no argument. “You will not go to any more parties until I say so. And we will be going to church tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow…?” your brother said, tilting his head. “But, Mom, tomorrow’s Monday…”

“Yes.” Your mother stared at your brother, then at you. “I know.”

And that was why you went to church every day for a week.

* * *

When you were eleven years old and had passed from elementary school to middle school, you also graduated from Sunday School. You began to instead attend the after-school church youth group with your older brother, as well as all your other peers - including Noelle and Monster Kid.

You found it was… pretty much exactly the same. The lesson plans might not have been for very young children anymore, and you were allowed to bring and play your video games (as long as they were age-appropriate, which all your games were anyway), but you still were doing a whole lot of group projects. Just more complicated ones than cutting the shapes of souls out of construction paper.

One day, you and your brother were tasked with making a figure of the Angel. It seemed easy enough, since nobody knew what the Angel looked like, but you were determined to get it done right. You were going to make the best Angel out of anyone, to prove… something. You weren’t sure what. Maybe it was to prove you were worthy of the Angel’s Heaven after all. Maybe it was to prove to your mother, who was no longer teaching you, that you weren’t going to fail without her guidance. Who could say?

Bratty and Catty were attending the youth group too, and both of them seemed equally determined to outdo the other one. They were sitting at the same table, but they kept looking at each other and embellishing their designs based on what the other one was doing. You thought it was all pretty ridiculous.

“Um, Azzy,” said Bratty at one point, looking up from her unfinished Angel figurine. “What are you wearing…?”

“Yeah, like, what does that say?” said Catty, while Bratty glared at her.

Your brother blushed. With a sigh, he stood up, smoothing out his black shirt, and it was clear what it said, in big bold white letters: “I PUT THE STUD IN ANGEL STUDIES.”

Catty and Bratty both laughed, lifting their hands (or paws, in Catty’s case) to their faces. “Oh my _god,”_ they said at the same time. “That’s _hilarious.”_

Then they went right back to glaring at each other. Your brother sat down, blushing even deeper.

“Dad got that for me…” he grumbled.

“Ignore them,” you told him. “Let’s make the wings bigger.”

“Again?” said your brother, exasperated. You looked down at your “figure” - there was no figure at all. There were a bunch of materials, which you’d used to make several pairs of increasingly larger and more elaborate golden wings. Many of them were covered in glitter.

“Yes,” you said, as if it was obvious. “It has to be the best.”

“I mean, I like the wings too, but… we’ll never get done at this rate!”

You considered this. Just as you did, you heard Noelle shout from a nearby table, “I’m done!”

Everyone in the room who had arms clapped, especially her mother December and her father Rudy. You looked at Noelle’s Angel figure, which she was holding proudly in her hands - it didn’t look like much, in your opinion, but you supposed it was cute.

Your brother had a point, however. It had been almost an hour. Noelle had already finished hers, and most people were close to finishing theirs. Only Monster Kid and Snowy, who didn’t have arms to build anything with, hadn’t done anything. You weren’t sure why they had teamed up - except, knowing them, to goof off.

“...OK,” you said. “No more wings.”

“Oh, thank goodness,” said your brother. “Let’s start with, er, a body? To put the wings on? I’ll make the robes.”

You nodded your agreement and started to work on constructing a body out of cardboard and glue, while your brother cut the robes out of the lacey fabric that had been provided.

You thought you were doing a good job, but…

“Youth group endsssss in five minutessss!” announced Sister Theodora. “Pleassssse finisssssh your figuresssss as soon as possible!“

“But…” you said automatically.

Sister Theodora clapped. “Make it work!”

You rushed to finish, handing your brother the body and what you’d done so far of the head so he could attach the wings to it. The wings were magnificent, you thought, and sparkly, and _huge._ The rest of it… not so much.

Before you knew it, five minutes had passed, and Sister Theodora clapped again. “Very good, everyone! Pleasssssse present your figuressss to the classssss.”

You took a look at your figure.

It sucked.

You felt a flash of anger at it, and were somewhat tempted to just throw it to the ground, but decided that would be disrespectful to the Angel… not to mention embarrassing. You still weren’t sure people had forgotten the time where you’d stormed out of choir practice.

Your brother patted you on the shoulder. “It’s OK, Kris. No big deal.”

You shrugged. It… really wasn’t that big of a deal. At least the wings looked nice.

When it was your turn to present, you showed it off with as much pride as you could muster. Everyone with arms clapped politely (Monster Kid whistled and cheered), so you took it home with you to show it to your mother.

By the time you got home, the glue attaching the head to the body had come loose, and the head had vanished somewhere.

But your mother complimented the wings.

* * *

There were three things about you that were definitely true: one, you liked eating chocolate. Two, you ate a _lot_ of chocolate. Three, you usually forgot to brush your teeth before bed.

So, inevitably, you had terrible teeth. It hadn’t seemed like a big deal to you at the time - Officer Undyne _also_ had terrible teeth, and nobody complained about hers - but it had become an increasingly bigger and bigger deal to your parents.

So they eventually forced you to go to the local dentist, the local dentist you always avoided because it was Ice-E branded and there was a terrifying Ice-E tooth mascot outside the front door at all times. Including in the middle of the night.

“How tense...” your father said as he drove you in his truck to the dentist and you stared out the side-view mirror. “Just think of it like… a visit to the dentist. Er. Wait.”

You sighed.

Your father laughed. “I’m sure I was going somewhere with that analogy. At any rate, here we are.”

He stopped his truck and you climbed out of it, staring at the grinning, Ice-E/tooth-shaped building with a growing sense of dread. There was a big neon sign on the overhang that said “ICE-E DENTISTS,” but half of the letters had gone out, so it said “IC DENTS.” It was unnerving.

Your father walked up to the front door and you followed him, taking a seat in the waiting room while he checked you in.

It wasn’t until you had sat down that you noticed that you had sat down next to somebody, and somebody your age, somebody from your class. It was that purple dinosaur girl who had a reputation for bullying people… Suzy or something? You’d never spoken to her. You weren’t fond of the idea of making yourself a target.

“What are you staring at, freak?” she said, and you looked away, suddenly conscious of the fact that you had been staring at her.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw her grin at you, exposing rows of sharp, sharp yellowed fangs. You could see why she was going to the dentist.

“Like ‘em?” she said, sticking her face right up to yours. You could smell her breath - it smelled rancid, like weeks-old leftovers. “I need ‘em nice and clean. You know why?”

You shook your head, wondering when your father was going to come back.

“For _tearing people’s faces off,”_ she said, somehow grinning even wider. “Especially little Angel freaks like you. Always going to church with your dumb family and all that crap… it disgusts me.”

You didn’t glare at her. You just tried to ignore her, trying to turn away from her without giving away that she honestly kind of scared you. But she pressed on. You were probably encouraging her, if anything. Bullies were like that, weren’t they?

“What’s wrong? I just insulted your family. You aren’t going to say anything?”

You didn’t reply.

“Ugh. What are you, mute or something? That’s so annoying.”

When _was_ your father going to get back?

“I don’t see why your dumb family’s always going to church anyway,” she continued. Without warning, she threw an arm around your shoulder, continuing to grin her toothy grin at you. You froze, more uncomfortable from the contact than anything she’d said so far. “You know all that Angel stuff’s a load of bullshit, right? It’s like Santa Claus for adults.”

You immediately wanted to say “it’s not,” because it wasn’t, was it? Why would your family teach you lies...?

In a mocking tone, she said, right into your ear, “ThE AnGeL’s GoNnA cOmE bAcK aNd AlL tHe BaD pEoPlE aRe GoNnA bE ThRoWn In A LaKe oF FiRe! Is that right? Come on, you’re the Angel freak. You tell me.”

You felt tears pricking at your eyes, in spite of yourself, and you knew that was only encouraging her _more._ Sure enough, she squeezed your shoulder tighter, nearly digging her claws into it. You opened your mouth to speak - to say something, anything, to get her to stop.

“Actually, don’t answer. I don’t give a shit. Just tell me when you stop believing in that crap.”

At that moment, your father arrived, smiling as if nothing was wrong.

“Howdy, Kris! Sorry for the wait.” He took a look at the purple girl… and at her arm around your shoulder. “Ah, have you made a new friend?”

“Yeah, Mr. Dreemurr!” she said, shaking you back and forth like a ragdoll. “We’re _best friends!”_

You smiled up at him awkwardly, too scared to say anything else.

“That’s wonderful! A pleasure to meet you, er…?”

“Susie!”

“Susie. Yes. Why, I don’t believe I’ve seen you around town before. Where do you live?”

Susie’s grip on your shoulder tightened to the point where her claws actually hurt. “Uh, around?”

“Ah, well,” said your father. “Perhaps I will run into your parents sometime, and we can be friends as well!”

“Sure, Mr. Dreemurr! Whatever you say!”

Your father sat down next to you, and you felt Susie’s hand slither off your shoulder. You let out a sigh of relief.

She didn’t say anything else to you. Eventually, you went into the dentist’s office for your appointment - you never thought you’d be happier to be _in_ the dentist’s office than _outside_ of it.

An hour later, you emerged from the dentist’s office with your teeth newly filled in, the promise of a follow-up appointment, and the threat of getting new braces hanging over your head. Susie was nowhere to be seen, but you knew she’d see you at school the next day.

You suddenly didn’t want to go to school anymore.

* * *

You remember that it was years that passed since the time you’d last seen that mysterious light in person, the one you’d seen in the church after your recital… but it was always in your dreams. It seemed like, every time you slept, you saw it - you reached out to it over and over, hoping it would reveal its secrets to you, but it never did. You only saw the flash of your own name, some kind of clock, and some words, before it vanished and you woke up.

You decided, one night, to ask your mother about it. Even if it was weird and creepy and she’d probably give you strange looks.

“Mother?” you said to her, sitting crosslegged in front of her, while she sewed a tear in one of Asriel’s shirts.

“Yes, Kris?” she said, setting the shirt onto her lap and putting her sewing needle and thread into her bag.

“I’ve been having this strange dream lately,” you said. “It doesn’t make sense, but it feels… so real.”

“As dreams tend to do,” your mother replied sagely, and you nodded. Even before you’d dreamt of the light, your dreams had been like that. “Can you please describe it for me?”

You nodded again, trying to concentrate on your memories. As you did, your hands clenched and unclenched… you wished you had something soft to hold in your fists, like a blanket.

“I’m in… a very dark place,” you said. “There’s ground beneath me, but it’s… gray, and there’s no sky. It’s all a black void of nothingness. There are strange noises all around me, like laughter, and whenever I see walls, the walls have eyes on them.”

The more you spoke, the more foolish you felt, and the more disturbed you were sure your mother must have felt. But, when you looked up at her, she only looked at you seriously, as if she was taking in every single word.

“But, mother, that… isn’t the strangest part,” you continued. “The strangest part is that, sometimes… i-in my dreams… I see this gray light. It’s like a star, but on the ground. I feel like it’s… calling out to me.”

You shivered.

“So I reach out and I touch the light. And then I see… my name, Kris. And some other things, like a clock and some words.”

You dared to look up at your mother again, but she looked as serious as before. She wasn’t looking at you like you’d lost your mind.

“And then I wake up,” you finished.

“I see,” your mother said.

“What… what does it mean?”

Your mother, in response, reached out and grabbed a thick, heavy book off a nearby shelf. It was, of course, The Book - the same copy she took to church every Sunday.

She flipped through its pages while you waited, unsure what answers the Book could possibly have for you. Your dreams seemed… too strange, too strange for anyone to have answers to.

“Ah, here we are,” she said at last. “As you well know, Kris, the Angel often reaches out to their followers in the form of dreams and prophecies. Your dream could very well be a sign from the Angel themself.”

You… didn’t like the sound of that, but you weren’t going to say so.

“Gab 28:06-09,” she recited. “‘Why, O Angel, hast Thou forsaken me? The dreams Thou sends me grow darker yet darker. I see no path before me. I feel only the siren call of Death.’ And, lo, Gab did hear a voice within him. ‘Why dost thou think I have forsaken thee? Doth my light not shine within thee always? Doth it not light thine path? Remember and thou will see the truth.’”

“Mother, I…” you said hesitantly. “I don’t understand.”

“It means you are doubting the Angel’s will,” your mother said. “The Angel is reaching out for you in the form of this ‘light,’ calling your name, and though you reach out for them, you do not answer them with your whole soul. That is why you see only darkness.”

You thought about this.

But it seemed… unfair. You had trusted the Angel all your life, hadn’t you? You had gone to church every Sunday, attended Sunday School and youth group every week, participated in every group project… were you not a believer?

You remembered how you had failed to become Reborn. How you’d stormed out of church choir. How you’d built an Angel whose head had fallen off. Perhaps those were all signs. Perhaps those were signs that you weren’t a true believer.

That it was _your fault._

You felt yourself shaking, some kind of anger bubbling inside you. Not at the Angel… but at yourself.

“Do not fret, dear one,” said your mother. She climbed up from her chair, set the Book aside, and put a paw on your shoulder. You flinched away. “As I have told you, all who know the Angel experience doubt. Doubt is nothing to fear. We need only redouble our efforts to set you back on the proper path.”

You couldn’t tell her that you didn’t _want_ to redouble your efforts.

You thought of something Susie had said to you.

_“You know all that Angel stuff’s a load of bullshit, right? It’s like Santa Claus for adults.”_

Maybe, you dared to think, she had been _right._ It _wasn’t_ fair that you didn’t believe “enough.” It _wasn’t_ fair that the Angel was torturing you with these strange dreams that didn’t make sense. It _wasn’t_ fair that you were cursed to experience eternal damnation, through absolutely no fault of your own, despite every bit of effort you’d made.

The Angel… was a load of bullshit.

You didn’t dare to express this revelation aloud. You only said, “Thank you, mother,” smiled at her as she said “You are quite welcome, dear,” and then returned to your room.

In there, before you even went to sleep, was the light, floating in its center.

It didn’t make sense. It almost made you angry. Was it taunting you? The so-called “Angel”... were _they_ taunting you? Was it like your mother had said - that this light was because you didn’t believe in them enough? And now, after invading your dreams, now their light was in your home, in your _room?_

“Go away,” you hissed at it, but it didn’t respond. It just glowed.

Without thinking about it, you marched over to it and reached out for it, ready to tear it to pieces with your bare hands, if you even could do such a thing.

And, as soon as you did…

**KRIS 0:00**

**KRIS’S ROOM**

...and then it was gone.

Furious at it, you grabbed a pillow off your bed and threw it across the room, at the space where the light had been. Nothing happened.

But what had you expected?

You weren’t any less angry, so you took another pillow and screamed into it. Maybe the Angel would hear you and leave you alone, you thought, so you screamed louder. You’re sure your mother must have heard you screaming, but nobody came to your room.

Finally, at last, when you’d screamed your lungs out, you laid on your pillow and went to sleep.

For some reason, you didn’t have any dreams that night.

* * *

If church hadn’t interested you before, it interested you even less now. You found you could barely pay attention to it - Father Alvin’s long-winded sermons washed right past you, like raindrops into an endless sea. You found yourself taking the little sheets of paper and pencils that were attached to the backs of the pews and spending your entire day doodling on them. You especially liked doodling pictures of dragons.

Eventually, after a few weeks of this, you dared to take your Game Child Color with you into church, so that you could play Pokémans (or, as it was called in its original country, Pocket Humans). Catching Scotts, Joshuas, and Emilies and forcing them to battle each other to the death (or, at least, unconsciousness, but you preferred to think of it as death) interested you much, much more than whatever Father Alvin had to say.

Of course, the moment you took your Game Child out of your pocket and turned it on, forgetting to turn the volume down and making the loud _da-DING_ play over the tinny speaker, your mother had glared at you.

“What do you think you are doing?” she had whispered sternly. “You know very well those devices do not belong in a church. Why are you not listening to Father Alvin?”

You had froze, embarrassed and flustered, before muttering, “I was bored.”

“Kris,” your motherhad said, and you could tell by her tone she was angry. “I thought we were going to ‘redouble our efforts’? This is not what I would call listening to the will of the Angel.”

Your father had, thankfully, intercepted.

“Oh, Tori, let them have their fun,” he had said. “Why, I was the same way when I was their age. I am sure they’ll grow out of it in time.”

Your mother had turned to him, but then looked around herself. Rudy, in the pew in front of her, was staring at her, as was Mayor December.

She had let out a cough, then turned to you. “Very well, Kris. I will let you play with your toy… this time. But know that I will not do so again, so do not make this a habit.”

You had nodded, grateful that she’d let you play with it without punishing you for your transgression.

But you brought it again the next week, and she said nothing, and you brought it the week after that, and she said nothing.

It seemed, instead, that the brunt of her anger was directed not at you, but at your father. Whenever she saw you grabbing your Game Child, she would make a face, and your father would smile and assure her it was just a phase. She would argue with him, late at night when she must have thought you couldn’t hear or were already asleep, telling him that his “coddling” was “turning Kris away from the Angel.”

You felt horrible, when they argued. You knew you were to blame.

But there was a part of you, a small part, that didn’t care.

* * *

The more time went on, the more you noticed your parents acting… differently.

They began to sit apart - your mother would leave the room whenever your father wanted to watch television, claiming that she couldn't stand the noise. They began to sleep apart - first, your father slept on the couch, then he bought an entirely new bed. They talked less to each other - even at dinner, they would say nothing to each other. Your mother complained more, saying that your father wasn’t helping enough around the house, that he was giving away too many of his flowers and not earning enough money to pay the bills.

You could see the effect it was having on your brother, who didn’t know what to make of it. He retreated further and further away from your parents and into listening to music, into playing video games with you. His homework and his grades started to suffer, even though you could tell he was trying his hardest and putting on a brave face.

In private, he talked to you, but it was always about _you,_ his concern for _you._ Never about himself.

“Kris,” he would say, after yet another awkward dinner. “I know Mom and Dad are acting, uh, weird. Are you doing OK?”

“Kris,” he would say, after another argument over something insignificant. “You holding up alright? I’m worried about you.”

“Kris,” he would say, after another day at church where your parents sat apart, “this isn’t your fault, OK? Don’t ever think it’s your fault.”

But it wasn’t just your parents that were drifting. It was you that was drifting, in a different sense. The horrible feelings, the feelings of responsibility for it all, bubbled up within you until they overflowed and spilled out everywhere, and then you were left feeling… nothing. You felt empty, directionless.

Maybe that was why you took it out on other people.

Noelle was the easiest target. She was kind, and sweet, and anxious, and scared easily, but you also were in an in-between place with her. She wasn’t as close to you as Monster Kid was, or a complete unknown like Berdly, or terrifying like Susie. So Noelle it was.

You started off with simple pranks. You took all the pages out of her binder and didn’t reattach them, so that they all fell out when she opened it - you gave away that you had done it by giggling and got detention. You asked her to watch your seat, then went back to your house and never returned - you were grounded for that. You glued her pencils to her desk - another detention.

Then your pranks got more… complicated.

You covered your arms in ketchup and pretended it was blood, screaming your head off that you were dying. Grounded, and Rudy gave you strange looks afterwards. You pretended a garden hose was a dead Jockington. Grounded. You told her Ice-E was real and ate kids and laughed when she stopped going to the “PEZZA” place. You learned she was scared of humans for some reason, so you pretended you were a human, hid under her bed, and grabbed her legs when she got close. Rudy checked under her bed every day after that, and never let you near her bedroom again.

Then your pranks got more complicated still.

Like the time you ran into her home, screaming “Officer Undyne! Officer Undyne’s going to capture me and send me to jail!” She protected you valiantly, saying “Don’t worry, Kris! I’ll keep you safe from her!”, until you cracked up laughing and your mother grounded you for another week.

You asked her for homework help and then pretended to not know what numbers were, until after a half-hour of this, she finally said, “Oh, this is one of your… weird prank things, isn’t it?” and left the Librarby. She still trusted you every time you asked for homework help after that, although you didn’t know why.

You hid behind Gerson’s bench with a sheet over your head and pretended you were Gerson’s ghost and you were out for vengeance against all the children of Hometown. That had been a tricky one - you’d written a fake anonymous love letter to her and asked her to meet at the bench at midnight so she’d go to it. But it’d worked. It’d upset her more than you expected though - she cried for a week afterward to her parents, and her dad had been genuinely mad at you. Or, at least, as mad as Rudy ever got.

Someone might have said what you were doing to Noelle was mean. In fact, someone _did_ say it - your mother, every time she found out, which she always did. She told you over and over something or other about how Noelle was shy and kind and it wasn’t right to bully such a sweet girl like that.

You didn’t really care what your mother said. You were having fun, and it wasn’t like you were tying her hooves together with shoelaces or taking all the screws out of her desk or anything else that might be dangerous. You hadn’t meant to make her _cry,_ that one time, but it was harmless.

Besides, if you really were cursed by the Angel, if you really were a “demon” instead, then shouldn’t you act like one?

* * *

“Angels” didn’t hang out with other children. “Angels” were good, and kind, and soft. They did what their mother told them and hung out with kids their own age, playing hopscotch and marbles and other silly things. You were more grown-up than that - you always had been.

So you stopped hanging out with Monster Kid and Snowy and started trying to hang out with the older kids, Catty and Bratty and Cyan and that weird cat kid and all their friends. You stopped wearing your green and yellow striped sweater and replaced it with a red and black one. You started wearing sunglasses.

Yes. This was definitely more mature.

The older kids accepted you joining them with… well, not exactly open arms. They constantly wanted you to prove that you had what it took, and you were eager to prove that you did.

Once, Bratty asked you to go get some burgers. The other teens had snickered, like you were incapable of such a _basic task_ , and that just made you more determined to prove that you could deliver burgers better than anyone. You accepted, and Bratty gave you a complex list of orders that you immediately memorized.

So you marched over to the diner, all the way from Bratty’s house, repeating the orders to yourself over and over so you wouldn’t forget. As soon as you got to the register, you immediately demanded five burgers. The bunny cashier had looked at you skeptically, and maybe with a bit of pity, before asking you where your parents were.

“I’m a big kid,” you said. “I don’t need parents.”

Her look of pity became outright concern, but she took your order all the same. You listed out every detail - including Bratty’s order, a double triple bossy deluxe, on a raft, 4x4 monster style, extra shingles. You waited patiently for it, going to a nearby wall and leaning against it with your hands in your pockets.

It took a half-hour, but then the cashier took out a tray with five burgers. Perfect. You thanked her and started to take the tray so you could leave.

“Um, dear,” she said, before you could even turn around. “You need to pay for that?”

Your face must have gone white. You didn’t have any money on you. You had spent all your allowance this month on the new sweater and sunglasses. You’d forgotten to ask for money from Bratty and her friends.

“I…” you stammered, trying to remain calm. “I… don’t have any money.”

“Oh dear,” said the cashier. “Hold it right there, I’ll talk to my manager, OK?”

And she left, going to the back. You felt everyone in the diner staring at you and your whole face felt hot. You wanted to bury your face in the burgers. This was _humiliating._

Maybe you could sneak out before she came back. If you just… stuffed the burgers into your pants… no. That was stupid. What kind of idiot would do that?

Before you could even think of what else to try, the cashier came back.

“I spoke to the manager,” she said, smiling gently at you. “And since your family are such loyal customers, it’s on the house this time. But only this time, OK, dear?”

Your whole face still felt hot, but you took the tray carefully.

“Thank you,” you said.

“You’re welcome, sweetie. Just remember: don’t forget your money next time, alright?”

You took the tray and left the diner, returning to Bratty’s house with the tray in your hands. They took the burgers gratefully.

You realized you’d never ordered one for yourself. Your stomach rumbled.

“Aww, come here,” said Bratty, wrapping an arm around your shoulder. “You can, like, have half of mine. You totally forgot the pickles anyway.”

You smiled up at her and happily accepted the burger. You really did feel like you belonged with them.

“But, um, hey, could you, like, get me some more stuff?” said Bratty. “Like some french fries. And, um, a dozen miniature cakes? And…”

Yes, you thought as you went back to the diner with another list of orders memorized. You definitely belonged with the older kids.

* * *

One day, it happened.

One day, your parents were together, and the next day, your father was packing his bags. And that was all there was to it. Nothing you could do would stop it. Nothing you would do could stop it. So you did nothing to stop it.

On his way out the door, he hugged you tightly while your mother sat at the table and frowned.

“I will be nearby, my children,” he said to you and Asriel. “I shall visit as often as I am able. Please do not fret.”

You could tell your older brother was trying not to cry, and somehow, knowing that made it even harder for you. You felt tears rolling down your cheeks, in spite of yourself, which your father wiped away.

“There, there, Kris,” he said to you. “This is for the best. That’s what your mother and I have decided. Please remember that I do not make this decision lightly, or to hurt our family.”

He smiled at you, as if to try and reassure you, but you didn’t smile back. You just stood there, your fists clenched, trying not to cry anymore than you had. It was so hard. You wanted nothing more than to cry, and scream, and throw a tantrum, in the hopes that it would make someone, anyone, change their mind.

But you knew it wouldn’t, so you didn’t.

Your father stood up and your brother threw his arms around him. Your father, surprised, patted him on the back.

“I’m going to miss you so much, Dad,” your brother said, and you could hear his voice crack. “It won’t be the same here without you.”

“Now, don’t talk like that, Asriel,” your father said comfortingly. “I will be only a few blocks away, in my store. You are free to visit me any time you wish.”

But you could tell, no matter how calmly your father spoke, what he was thinking.

_I’ll miss you too._

Your brother released his grip on your father, and your father turned, picked up his suitcase, and walked to his truck. You watched as he threw the suitcase into the back, got in his car, and drove away.

As you watched your father's truck disappear down the street, you quietly repeated what he told you. It wasn't like you’d never see him again. He was just a few blocks away.

But it was like Asriel had said too. The house would never be the same without him. He had been like one of the few rocks in the churning sea that was your life. Now it had gone, and you were just that much more unstable.

You felt your brother pull you into a hug, leaning down and pressing you against his chest. You didn’t know whether it was for your sake or for his, because he cried, and you cried. When he cried, it was loud and blubbering - he didn’t practically wail, he _did_ wail. When you cried, it was silent, your body shaking and trembling as you tried in vain to contain your emotions.

As you brother continued to cry, you looked at your mother. Your mother was crying too, you realized. She was trembling and shaking, just like you were, and there were tears rolling down her furry cheeks.

That was what broke you. Your face crumpled, and you started to wail too, like a child, like a baby. You couldn’t stop the tears from flowing, the emotions from boiling inside you - it was like your father had died, the way you were all reacting to it.

And that meant that it was like you had been the one to kill him.

Because this was all your fault. You had known that from the start. You’d just been suppressing it, keeping it bottled up, and now he’d finally actually left you and the bottle had shattered against the floor.

But you couldn’t manage to say the words “I’m sorry,” no matter how hard you tried. You just wailed and wailed, crying until you couldn’t cry anymore, and then crying further still. The harder you cried, the harder your brother cried, the harder your mother cried, like a feedback loop.

Eventually, of course, you stopped crying, because you had no other choice. Your face was wet with tears and snot, and your brother’s t-shirt was soaked with both. He was the one, once you finally stopped crying, who carried you to your room and took you to bed. Your mother just sat at the table, sobbing silently.

As you laid in bed that night, you kept wanting to scream, to cry some more, but you were... so tired. You only watched as your brother sat on the edge of his bed, his face buried in his paws, until eventually, he laid on his own pillow and tried to sleep.

Eventually, you slept too.

And you had a very strange dream.

There was a black void, empty of anything. There was no light, except for your body. There wasn’t even the ground beneath you. You were floating, as if suspended in midair.

In front of you was… a strange thing. A… heart, as you recognized from your books. It wasn’t like a human heart, but like a cartoon picture of one, and it was a bright, luminous red.

You wondered why it was there.

And then it shot forward, straight at you. You tried to cover your chest with your arms, but it simply moved right through them as if your arms weren’t there at all.

And then you felt it entering you, entering your chest, sinking into you.

You screamed. It _hurt._ It was like it was ripping you in half, as if it was tearing through your skin to get inside you. You looked down and you could see your chest literally peeling apart, revealing not dust but skin and muscle and sinew and blood, a gaping hole, as it forced its way in. You grabbed at it, trying to stop it, but even though you could get a grip, it did nothing. It was so much stronger than you were.

There was another, different pain - one in your head. The more the heart pushed its way into where your soul should have been, the more your mind screamed at you, as if someone was drilling something into your skull. It was like it was attacking your mind as well as your body, and your mind was trying everything in its power to force out this _thing._ But your mind was losing.

Your chest opened fully, revealing your ribcage, your own beating organs. Your scream became agonized, but there was nothing you could do - the heart shoved its way fully into your chest and then your chest instantly closed again, like nothing had happened.

Your scream immediately stopped.

And you smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my friends Light and Willow for betaing this chapter!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to the many people who betaed this chapter, including IvySnowy, [light_rises](https://archiveofourown.org/users/light_rises/pseuds/light_rises), and [AMX004_Qubeley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AMX004_Qubeley/pseuds/AMX004_Qubeley).
> 
> Credit to the translated Cruel Angel's Thesis lyrics from http://leeandlie.blogspot.com, and specifically this video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZmJ5oBdJTXQ


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